There sure is something about annual holidays… and it’s not lost on me that this happened on St. Patrick’s Day – never a favourite of mine, as my father, Patrick, was no saint…

So, it was pretty damned appropriate that my world fell apart five years ago, on St. Patrick’s Day. Of course, that might be a teensy bit melodramatic, since I am still here to write about it, but… it felt like my world had fallen apart – the world as I knew it had fallen apart.

My then-husband of 2-1/2 years had been home for a week from his month-long workshop retreat out west, at “our” retreat centre. He had come home declaring that he had learned many things, battled his inner demons, and was now 100% committed to our marriage, ready to be the most open, honest, supportive husband I could possibly wish for. Which was, of course, music to my ears.

But in the week since his return, actions had not been supporting words – that lack of integrity having been one of the biggest reasons for his heading off on retreat to begin with (and convincing me to pay for it… not that I’m bitter… ahem…) So after a week of clinging to the hope of his words, I finally paid attention to the actions (or lack thereof), and asked him why the declarations of open honesty were still being paired with a giant wall of disconnect?

I was not prepared for the answer.

Sitting at my kitchen table, I was deluged with tales of dishonesty, betrayals and infidelities that had been ongoing throughout not only our then-only-2-1/2-year marriage, but all the years leading up to it. That even as he had been working hard to convince me to stand down from my “I will never get married again”, because marriage was so important to him, my doubts were just “my trust issues” and he would “prove” that he was different… he was already engaged in the very dishonesty and betrayals that fuelled my “trust issues”. That even as he was speaking (and singing) his wedding vows, he was already in the midst of breaking many of them.

But he was being open and honest now, so I should appreciate it and not be upset, because he had learned so much, and was determined to be a better man.

Those of you good with math will realize that this occurred shortly after the whole “Gatekeeper” incident. So the fact that I had been betrayed so thoroughly by someone who was “supposed” to love me was not an unusual situation for me. But the fact that D said he was willing to do the work WAS a new situation for me – and one I clung to desperately (although you do remember that bit about actions not matching words being part of the reason he went on retreat?).

The rug had been ripped out from under me, I had no stable foundation. My “trust issues” had just been proven right, and I didn’t know how to move forward and rebuild trust in someone who had been lying to me for at least seven years (probably more, in hindsight). Both I and our marriage counsellor told D that if there was anything else he’d been hiding or lying about, now was the time to let me know. He spent the following week assuring me that there was nothing else he was hiding, everything was on the table, he saw the error of his ways and would be open and honest and fully transparent from now on.

Five years ago today, I thought my world had fallen apart.

But that was nothing compared to exactly one week later, when I discovered that not only had he spent the month-long retreat (on my dime, as you may recall) engaging in an affair with “the most beautiful woman” who “loves it when you go balls-deep”, but he had also spent all his “open, honest, transparent, fully committed to our marriage” two weeks back home engaging in a cyber-affair, plotting with her how to cover his tracks, and… oh yeah, those three other retreats he’d signed up for and convinced me to pay for? Well, she was going to be there too… and probably sharing a room with him this time. So much for seeing the error of his ways… Trust went out the window.

I at least had the presence of mind to not pay for the subsequent retreats. But that’s about as assertive and protective as I could manage at the time. (I will forgive myself, I will forgive myself…) My Codependent Tiara was screwed on tight – I was only too eager to accept all the blame for his bad choices and behaviours (because if everything was my fault, then I could figure out what to do right, and it wouldn’t ever happen again, right?!? – ugh…) Therapists were called, D’s behaviour was declared to be a symptom of addiction and mental illness. I needed to be understanding and supportive while he worked it out.

I immersed myself in the writings of Glennon Doyle Melton– after all, she had faced this exact situation a few years before, and she and her husband had worked hard, saved their marriage, and were happier and healthier than they had ever been! We could do the same. (This was, of course, before she decided to leave her marriage – I am still waiting for my hot soccer star to show up…) I just had to work hard on myself, work on my trust issues, protect D from shame, and all would be repairable.

"We can do hard things"

– Glennon Doyle Melton

I’d love to tell you that was my rock bottom, but… there were still a few layers to go.

Here I was again, not feeling safe in my own home. Not feeling safe with the person I was “supposed” to feel safe with. Yet believing that I was responsible for it all. I spent several months sleeping on the futon in my office, before it finally dawned on me that it’s usually the cheater who relinquishes the comfy bed. I somehow accepted the explanation that my (justifiable) anger after finding out about the ongoing deception, betrayals and infidelities was the reason why they all occurred in the first place – even as he was calling me “Sweetness and Light”, and telling me how much he appreciated my kindness and lack of rage (I now have great sympathies for his previous ex-wife, who I suspect had similar reason to be angry, but I took his claims at face-value… many of which, in hindsight, were obvious lies I overlooked). Talking with friends about what I was going through became dangerous – letting other people know what was going on was seen as a betrayal, fuelling D’s shame, which was what had caused his issues to begin with. I stopped telling anyone what was going on.

I knew how to put on a brave face – I’d grown up as an expert in the “let’s pretend everything’s perfect” department. I smiled and covered up like a rockstar. Nobody, not even my closest friends, knew the hell I was going through. Occasionally, I’d reach the end of what I could endure, but I was skilled at waiting until after D fell asleep before allowing myself to cry. Except he caught me crying once, said I was raging at him, trying to make him feel bad. I learned to stop crying, except on those rare occasions when he left the house. Eventually, I couldn’t even make myself cry alone, either.

The therapists put plans in place to help rebuild my trust, which he heartily agreed to do – “anything to prove I’ve changed”. Lip-service was given, but… when push came to shove, D would “forget” or outright refuse. My mentioning this or being upset about it was, of course, an attack on him – I was too needy, too demanding, trying to control him. I learned to not need. I was making myself smaller and smaller, in the effort to avoid triggering him into a rage. I managed to avoid the words or phrases that I knew would send him off… but then it became my “tone”… or, if I didn’t even say anything, the way I was breathing.

“The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are. You trade in your reality for a role. You trade in your sense for an act. You give up your ability to feel, and in exchange, put on a mask. There can't be any large-scale revolution until there's a personal revolution, on an individual level. It's got to happen inside first.”

– Jim Morrison

About ten months later, his usual promise to check in and be available when he was away was met with not only his refusal to be available, but his turning off his phone as soon as he left the driveway. When he returned almost eight hours after he said he would, and I questioned where he’d been and why he’d turned the phone off immediately after promising to be available, his rage reached new heights – or lows. So much is a swirl in my memory, but I can still picture myself collapsed on the kitchen floor, as he punched the wall above my head over and over, and then banged his own head against the kitchen cabinet over and over. The next day, my therapist made me pack a suitcase, put the women’s shelter on speed-dial, and promise me that if such a thing ever happened again, I would call the police (it did, I didn’t). When I sent a note to his therapist, she was shocked as he hadn’t even told her there was a conflict the night before. (As I had learned several times before, he would never volunteer information in therapy that might make him look bad.)

And yet, just over a week later, I was buying our dream home.

Yes, this does boggle my mind (now) as much as it probably boggles yours. What was I thinking?!? Well… that previous incident had finally convinced D to go on the medication his therapists had suggested, and I had been begging for him to try. I guess I had great faith the drugs would fix everything. Plus I had felt so isolated in Orillia – perhaps if I moved closer to my girlfriends, I’d be able to get the support I so desperately needed. Plus… it’s a pretty amazing house! This was going to be our new start. Everything we’d always wanted, free of the bad memories, a place to start again.

That second “honeymoon” lasted until the fall, when I discovered that, even though he was getting everything he said he wanted, and claiming to be open and honest and 100% committed to our marriage – he was engaged in the exact same behaviours he had been in before. At that point, I’d spent more time trying to single-handedly fix this marriage than he’d spent being committed to this marriage. Again, I slept on the couch… because… unbefreakinglievable, I’d managed to forget once again that I wasn’t responsible for someone else’s deceitful behaviour.

“Don’t you dare shrink yourself for someone else’s comfort – Do not become small for people who refuse to grow.”

Therapy intensified. I made myself smaller and smaller, while building up the happier and shinier. The hope of spending time with girlfriends disappeared, as he systematically declared them “not our kind of people”, and would only tolerate visits from his own friends.

Every time I figured I was at the end, there would either be a big crisis that required attention (I still don’t think it’s pure coincidence that his cancer came back the same week my therapist and I put together an exit plan), or things would suddenly seem to be getting better. He would announce how much happier he was, all was going well. And then I would discover the same things happening over and over again. Nothing was working, nothing was changing.

I learned that if I kept a bottle of vodka in the filing cabinet and took a good swig before going to bed, I would fall asleep before feeling the urge to cry. I tried harder and harder to find ways to get through to him – even a freaking flowchart at one point. But the words and actions grew further and further apart, the rages closer and closer together. Therapists telling me they didn’t see hope and that I should protect myself. His seeing them “take my side” and assuming we were ganging up on him. Behaviour more and more erratic until the day he nearly killed us, a family in a van, and perhaps the driver of the very large truck he decided to lock horns with – later described by the therapists as a (fortunately) unsuccessful suicide attempt (actually, they described it as attempted murder-suicide, but I still have trouble facing how someone could do something like that… DeNile ain’t just a river…).

"The good news is that pain, whether physical or emotional, can function as a powerful catalyst for healing, change and growth."

– Friedemann Schaub

That incident, at least, was enough to convince him to apply to a 2-month residential “rehab” program at Homewood – something the therapy team had been talking about for a couple of years, and I had been begging for silently on the inside. He finally allowed me to recruit some friends to help me in the months before he was admitted. I had a glimmer of hope back! Even though I had spent four years unsuccessfully trying to get things on track, surely professionals would be able to turn this around?

He applied, we waited for his name to work its way up the waiting list.

Oh, those annual holidays…

One year ago today – yes, St. Patrick’s Day yet again – I hosted a house concert “solo” for the first time – because D had been admitted to Homewood the day before, much earlier than expected. I felt hopeful. Once the rush of the concert was over, I felt… relaxed. I could show emotion. I could talk to friends. I didn’t have to walk on eggshells. I could feel my shoulders. I started to realize all that I had been sacrificing and enduring for the previous four years (and beyond). I felt good.

"Being free takes first realizing you’re in prison, and then questioning what imprisons you. Peace takes naming what keeps you ruffled. Joy takes realizing what separates you from it. It’s a process, not a one-time event; you’ve got to want your life back more than you want anything."

– Geneen Roth

As the weeks progressed, the treatment sounded promising. D’s phone calls back sounded positive, he was moving forward, learning much, looking forward to being open and honest and committed to our marriage.

Sound familiar?

By week five, it was all-too-familiar. The lies, the rages, the blame. And further investigation revealed that the lies were not – and had never been – just to me, and weren’t due to forgetfulness or omission, they were calculated manipulations and deception. This was not changing, it was not getting better, and I was finally starting to realize it never would.

I finally understood that it didn’t matter – and never had mattered – what I did or didn’t do, what I gave, how I behaved. It didn’t matter what he said or promised. He was not going to stop behaving the same way he had for the previous decade – and likely for several decades before that. That not even a team of professionals was ever going to be able to change something he was either unwilling or incapable of changing.

Here I’d been, reliving my childhood, tap-dancing my ass off in the hopes that it would earn me the right to be treated with honesty and decency from a person who was never going to treat me with honesty or decency. Thinking if I only found the perfect combination of words and actions, it would produce favourable results this time.

I’d been trying so hard to be “worthy” of love, I’d blinded myself (again) to the fact that some people are simply incapable of being loving. And I had exhausted myself so thoroughly with the efforts, I’d also blinded myself to those who were willing to love me without any effort on my part whatsoever.

I’ve chosen to spend a LOT more time with those people now! It’s way more fun, and a lot less exhausting.

Oh sure, intellectually I’ve known that I shouldn’t have to change who I am to be loveable. But I hadn’t let it fully sink in. “But it’s different for me” may be a line I joke with regularly, but apparently there are some parts of me that were still believing I needed to try harder in order to be just as worthy as everyone else.

My tiara is getting a little rusty. I’ve loosened the screws. I still plunk it on my head out of habit from time to time, but I quickly recognize its weight and take it off again. It’s never done me any favours.

About a month or so ago, a beloved friend admitted he had become “smitten” with me. My immediate reaction was “oh my lord, what did I do WRONG?!?” (Yes, I know that’s a ridiculous reaction, never fear.) After I talked myself down from that obviously neurotic knee-jerk, I recognized that I hadn’t done anything wrong – in fact, I hadn’t done a darned thing. I was loved, I was worthy of love, I was receiving love without any need for tap-dancing. Without needing to silence myself. Without hiding my snotty ugly-crying, frustrations, or needs. Without making myself smaller or lesser-than. Without sacrifice or caretaking or buying a dream home, or agreeing with everything he says, or… any of the tortures I’ve been putting myself through for forty…cough… something years. (More snotty crying ensued, but of the joyful variety.)

I would have kind of preferred the red-Ferrari kind of midlife crisis, but… I guess I’d rather learn some life lessons than lose money on a hunk of metal.

Oh, those annual holidays!

St. Patrick’s Day today. I’ve got my life back. I’ve learned some pretty important lessons that allow me to leave more parts of my past firmly in the past. I’ve reconnected with the friends who inspired my last move, and made several new ones. I’m getting ready to play a fun gig with a new band tomorrow, and another with a good friend on Wednesday. I’m excited to be getting back to my creativity. I’m putting my own oxygen mask on first these days.

As my old song said, “there’s love in my world and laughter in my kitchen.” And while there may not have been enough whiskey to get over him the first time, my filing cabinet is now vodka-free, as am I.

And to once again quote Glennon Doyle (no longer Melton, because she decided to put her oxygen mask on first, too): I am worthy of senseless, outrageous love.

So are you.

I know I had many people yelling that at me many ways ’til Tuesday and I didn’t believe them. So maybe you don’t believe it either. But please, don’t allow yourself to hide your light for as long as I did. There’s got to be SOME silver lining from all my slow learning… (That’s always my hope with my ramblings, that I can help others learn things more easily than I did – or at least know they aren’t alone.)

If you're hiding yourself to make yourself worthy of love, you're doing it wrong.

Shine your light, share your warmth. The world will be better off with you being the brightest, bestest You you can be.

"You are worthy of senseless, outrageous love."

– Glennon Doyle

Be a shiny freaking unicorn, covered in rainbow sparkles. YOU ARE the pot of gold AND the rainbow. And snakes are cool, so why drive them out? And mixing metaphors is my thing, so deal with it.

Today is also the feast day of St. Gertrude of Nivelles – patron saint of cats and the people who love them. So Happy St. Gertrude Day to you all.

I'm sorry I've been so quiet recently. Shortly after the debut of my "not-a-one-woman-show", "Music For the Changing Voice" (that amazing photo to the right was created for the show by Peter Stranks), life as I knew it exploded... or imploded... or... just ploded (!). Those of you who follow my blog ramblings have already seen a glimpse of what's been up, but the "Readers Digest" version is... it's been a year of chaos and major life changes, followed by some much-needed recovery and realignment for me. But I am happy to say that I'm starting to emerge from the cocoon, and getting back into performance mode (and writing mode, hallelujah!) at last.

Many people have been asking if we'll be doing "Music For the Changing Voice" again, and I'm happy to report that the answer is YES – but there are no particular dates set up just yet. We're currently working on finding a director who can help guide and shape the production, and then will work from there. I know it sounds a little silly to say, after having only two months to create and rehearse the darned thing in the first place, but... these things take time. Fear not, we're determined to move forward, and forward we are moving – just not in a way that's immediately obvious on the outside. I promise to let you know as it starts to take shape! (Although if Arkady and I have any more meringue dates, my shape will be decidedly rounder...)

As I've been squirming my way out of that cocoon, squinting at the light, there has been much healing and restorative creation time for me. I'm not sure if those creations are ever going to be seeing the light, but they've helped push me back into it, at least. So in the last few months I've been getting involved in a few new projects, and finally have some real-live performances to tell you about – all close to home for the time being (sorry to folks further afield – I'll hit the road again eventually!).

First off, I've recently started playing with a new Celtic band – well, the band has been around for a while, but I'm new to the scene – called Pagan's Folly, and we've been having a lot of fun putting together a program called "Ireland's Dream". We'll be debuting the "unplugged" version of the show on Sunday, March 18 (yes, the day after St. Patrick's Day) at 3pm at Collier St. United Church in Barrie. Admission is by freewill donation. I've been working on my "fiddle" bow arm, and enjoying diving in to a new (to me) genre of music head-first (and sometimes the other end, but I persevere!). Next Sunday, I'll be fiddling away, channelling my inner John Showman (or just praying I have an inner John Showman), and trying to forget that I’m surrounded by tall men in kilts! Full details are available here.

Only a few days later, I switch gears back to my classical side, in a recital with Marilyn Reesor as part of Music At St. Andrew's – a noon-hour concert on Wednesday, March 21 at St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church in Barrie. Marilyn will be performing music for solo organ and piano, and I will be joining her to perform works by Shostakovich, Stravinsky and Piazzolla on cello and piano, as well as pieces by Piazzolla, Bloch and Stravinsky on cello and organ. Some moodiness, some flashy hair-tossing (oops, I cut my hair...), some fun had by all. Admission is a mere $5, or free if you're a student. More information is available here.

Slightly further afield, I'll be reprising my "duet with birdies", and all the other beautiful music of Paul Winters's "Missa Gaia" on Sunday, April 22 at the re-vamped St. Paul's Centre in Orillia. This just got confirmed, so I don't have all the details (hardly any of the details, honestly) at the moment, but I'll update my event page as soon as they start to fill in.

Also just confirmed, I'll be part of the band for Theatre By The Bay's "Stars Come Out" show on May 14 at Barrie's Georgian Theatre. This annual event is a show packed with song, music and dance performed by the biggest stars from the most popular shows in Toronto. So you can stargaze, hear amazing performances, and support Theatre By the Bay's 2018 season all in one night! Tickets range from $27 - $125, and can be purchased here (full line-up to be announced shortly!).

Well, that's all the news that's (currently) fit to print, but there are all sorts of adventures being planned behind the scenes, some new music in the works, and more writing. All in good time, my pretties, all in good time!

I hope the last few months have treated you gently, and I look forward to our paths crossing again sometime soon. In the meantime, take good care of yourselves.

Truth and Beauty, friends! Alyssa

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Sat, 10 Mar 2018 20:57:52 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/returning-to-the-light-or-at-least-the-stage
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/returning-to-the-light-or-at-least-the-stageAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterValentine's Day 5.0
As I know I've said in these entries several times, there's nothing like an annual holiday to help you mark the days and see the changes that each year brings. This year and this Valentine's Day is no different.

"Facebook Memories" saw fit to remind me this morning of what I think was probably my favourite Valentine's Day, ever. Just look how freaking happy I am!

And isn't it interesting how my favourite Valentine's Day memory doesn't involve a romantic partner, but was with one of my "besties", Lisa (and her very patient husband – and our photographer for the day – Paul)?

Earlier that year, another good friend, Shannon (we met over vaginas, as I like to tell everyone, in the 2012 production of The Vagina Monologues, raising money for the Women & Children's Shelter of Barrie), had taken on the task of organizing the Barrie branch of One Billion Rising, and invited me to participate. Somehow, I was crazy enough to agree – and when she heard that Alyssa The Hermit was actually going to DANCE in public, Lisa offered to join me for moral support... and wine... and the chauffeur services of her hubby [edit: I forgot to mention the grilled cheese dinner!]. At least, I think it was for moral support – perhaps it was to make sure I didn't chicken out and run back to my blanket fort.

Because at the time of announcing I would be dancing, I had spent a lot of time in that damned blanket fort. I had finally reached the end of a harrowing multi-year (it could even be considered multi-decade) legal battle that had been dredging up an ocean of family gunk and ancient pain for me – and once the adrenaline of the fight left me, it was a time of overwhelming grief, compounded by the fact that the final "victory" was contingent upon my remaining silent about the details of the case – even from the grave, those who had deliberately caused me harm were still controlling what I could and can say in public about all that I had been dealing with at the time. Just as we were reaching the finish line, my then-newly-minted husband was undergoing cancer treatment. And then once all the documents were signed, hubby's health was cleared, and the family had celebrated, there was the news that my abusive ex had died – and I was as unprepared for the emotions surrounding his death as I had been in 1993 when my by-then-long-estranged father had died. Shortly after that came the Gatekeeper Incident, which pummelled me through the fall, the holiday season and beyond. I had been an emotional wreck. And yet... things had just started to turn around.

I had finally started emerging from that deep depression, after spending much time and energy working out all (all? ha ha ha...) the old crap that had arisen. Inspired in part by the Gatekeeper Incident, I was going head-on full-force with creating the Katie Project with some super-supportive friends who had agreed to join the founding board. My aforementioned husband was heading off to a 30-day workshop out west that he was convinced would help him with some of the issues he'd been dealing with – which had been negatively affecting our marriage as well. I had hope, I had direction, I had confidence, I was making things happen, I was getting things done, I was finding my voice, I was using it to help support others and to make waves – I WAS FRIGGING DANCING IN PUBLIC!!!! I felt amazing, I felt like I could do anything, I felt like the puzzle pieces of my life were finally all falling into place, and I had joy and hope for the first time in years. I WAS ON TOP OF THE WORLD!!!!!

In the immortal words of... er... me: "Do you see where this is going? Because I didn't see where this was going."

How could I have possibly known that only a few hours after the triumphant (if not talented) public dancing of Valentine's Day, 2013, I would start to notice that some of those puzzle pieces weren't fitting right? (Yet still tell myself that the azure sky piece not seeming to fit next to the giraffe piece was merely my warped perception, and certainly not reality...) How could I have possibly known that just over a month later, all those pieces would come crashing to the floor, later to be shot at me with a bazooka? That the following Valentine's Day, I would be trying so desperately to pretend the intervening year hadn't happened, and "start fresh" in a new home with new scenery – but with the very same jumbled puzzle pieces and bazooka? That the next two Valentine's Days would be spent as exercises in bitter disappointment – going for the fancy restaurant dinner and bottle of Amarone, eagerly longing for that night to be different, to somehow feel a connection, to feel hope, to feel seen and cared for, only to watch that Amarone get drained and feel my own anxiety rise as I tap-danced over the eggshells, hoping I wouldn't say the wrong thing to set him off, trying to sound interested as he spent our "special dinner" ranting over Romney or Harper or Ford or whoever his hated-political-figure-du-jour was that night (du nuit?), only to come home and have him open another bottle of something and feel the life drain from my soul? Or that by the fourth Valentine's Day, I would decide it was cheaper and far less angst-ridden to skip the fancy dinner and simply be ignored by a drunk at my own dinner table until I went to hide in the bathroom to silently cry for half an hour, then grunt goodnight and go off to our separate bedrooms, when I would sneak my own bottle of something to my room so that I could cuddle the dogs and numb myself to the fact that I was miserable and looking forward to death?

Nope. Look at that photo. I did not see where this was going. I was oblivious to the deception and betrayal already happening even as that camera shutter clicked – not to mention the next four years of repetitions and repercussions.

I was on top of the world.

But... there's nothing like an annual holiday to mark the days and see the changes that each year brings... And whoooeeeee, this year has brought so very many changes. I can feel my shoulders, for one. And I'm dancing again (though not in public – you're welcome). And creating again. And bursting into spontaneous grinning for no apparent reason. And have already spent most of 2018 – including Valentine's Day – feeling like I'm either madly in love or somebody spiked my tea.

Because I am madly in love.

Just not with somebody else. I'm in love with my life. I'm in love with my SELF.

I won't say I'm on top of the world again, because I don't think I trust that pedestal any more. I'm not on top of the world. I'm in the heart of the world. I'm in my own heart.

And sure, I'm once again trying to support and advocate and change the world – but I'm also allowing myself to take days when I don't do any of that, when I take care of me. I'm putting on my own oxygen mask first, and then figuring out what I'll do with my remaining resources. I'm going for guilt-free coffee dates with friends. I'm sitting on the balcony dreaming and scheming and not worrying about the to-do list. For the first time in the history of Lyssy-land, I'm taking all that love and care that I used to mindlessly give to others and channelling it into myself (okay, and my dogs...) Which, funnily enough, has given me more time and energy to spend on other people – I've had more spontaneous coffee dates or lunches or visits in the past few months than I'd had in the last decade! I have the energy and brain-space to develop deeper connections with people – and be there for them when they need it, just as I've allowed them to be here for me this year.

I am loved, genuinely loved by so many – no Amarone required. But most importantly, I am loved, genuinely loved, by myself – also no Amarone required!

Today, my friends, is now my favourite Valentine's Day. And, as in that picture from five years ago, no romantic partner is necessary to make it my favourite.

In case the above hasn't made it abundantly clear: In that shiny, happy photo from 2013, the romantic partner is elsewhere... unbeknownst to me, doing very un-loving things (well, un-loving to me, anyhow). In today's Valentines Day 5.0, he's also elsewhere (the very same "elsewhere" as far as I've heard – hope she likes lying cheats), but no longer a romantic partner (well, not to me, anyhow). Similarities and differences. One of the biggest differences being that I've finally realized my perceptions were dead-on about the azure sky and giraffe pieces, that they should never be shot at me from a bazooka, and that I love myself far too much to remain standing frozen in someone else's target range.

If there is anything my life to date has taught me, it is this:

Just because the people who are "supposed" to love you are unable (or unwilling) to treat you with kindness and compassion, doesn't mean that you aren't worthy of being treated with kindness and compassion.

Yes, as I've said before, find your tribe, the people who will love you and treat you with kindness and compassion, but I've got a new bit: Treat yourself that way first, and they'll be a lot easier to scope out. As soon as you decide that you are worthy of love (without needing to tap-dance), you'll both be able to see all the other folks nodding their heads vehemently, and not need to see them nodding their heads vehemently. You don't need any one person's love to "prove" your lovability. You are freaking lovable. The only one you need to prove it is yourself.

Which is not to say that we don't need love.We just don't need love to be lovable.

To be happy.

To have the best damned Valentine's Day EVER.

So, today, I've been showing my love and appreciation to the most important person in my life: MOI (hope you used your best Miss Piggy voice!).

No superficial flourishes that ring hollow without the follow-through – just treating myself with the loving-kindness I deserve every damned day of the year. Giving myself an extra hour of sleep & snuggle time with the dogs. Relaxed breakfast conversation with visitors (yes, breakfast – with fruit, no less!). Yoga, meditation, reflection, relaxation. Some time outside in the beautiful sunshine. Getting stuff done, but not in a frenzy. Making a spinach quesadilla (no frying, light on the cheese) for lunch. Going for massage therapy (ahhhh). Playing. Creating. Writing. Yes, a teensy bit of accounting, but just a teensy bit. And tonight I treated myself to a delicious organic salmon, put as much garlic in the rice as I felt like (because the dogs don't care), and ate my leafy green salad. Once again, no Amarone required... or even desired. Because I'm treating my body with all the love and care that it deserves. And later, as a special treat, I'm gonna lock myself in the bathroom again – this time to soak in the whirlpool – with bubbles!

I will refrain from being cynical and suggesting that one should remain single for the remainder of ones days in order to enjoy "Happy Hallmark Day" – I'm just saying that love comes in many forms and from many places. And that these types of real love beat fancy-proclamations-of-love-without-the-real-life-follow-up any day. And that loving yourself is the most important love of all.

I mean, I haven't started suddenly floating away on a solitary cloud of sparkly self-love stardust, eschewing all love from others. Hell no!!! OF COURSE it felt good when I was wished "Happy Valentines Day!" in the wee hours of this morning (don't let your imaginations go overboard here, this involved a long distance call from a beloved friend – there's a lot of healing still to do before travelling down that road again!). And again tonight, when I saw my cousin's name appear on my cell phone, and heard him wish me "Happy Valentine's Day... because I knew you'd be someone who understood", and we talked about all sorts of stuff, and reminded each other how much we are loved and lovable and always will be – because we know that each of us really needs to be reminded of that these days. Those wishes made me feel connected and cared for (and hopefully made them feel the same way), and all the lovely things that accompany knowing somebody loves you, that somebody is thinking of you, that somebody cares how you're doing and wants to remind you you are loved – it's just that I didn't *need* to hear that in order to feel secure and happy in my life, or feel like somebody has spiked my tea. My love for myself allows me to be open to the love (romantic or otherwise) I receive from others, and to genuinely reciprocate it. [Interestingly, of these two telephone "bookends" to my day, the first was from someone whose ex-spouse served them with divorce papers on Valentine's Day a couple of years ago, the second just signed their divorce papers this Valentine's Day – the Temple Dog in me wants to go smack some people...]

This is the best Valentine's Day ever, because I've finally stopped all the tap-dancing and eggshell-walking and trying so hard to "earn" love from the people who are incapable of giving it. Because I'm rocking the self-care. And because I'm taking care of myself, I'm able to truly see and soak in all the love that surrounds me. There are, and have always been, people who truly love me – I've just been so consumed trying to "convert" those who can't or won't, I haven't been able to fully recognize it, or relax enough to let it sink in.

"As you give, so shall you receive" – I've always mis-interpreted that to mean that the more love I gave away, the more I'd get in return. And I gave and I gave, hoping that eventually I would give that person enough that they'd deem me worthy of returning a bit my way. And got exhausted, and disillusioned, and bitter, and miserable (and often very, very inebriated). But now I see that what I really needed to do all along (oh click those ruby slippers, darling, click them together three times!!!), was to give *myself* all the love that I needed. Not in the "oh Alyssa, you're perfect in every way and you're awesome and big and strong and blah blah blah" sense, but in the "oh Alyssa, you're so freaking human, and I love you for that and am going to take care of you always" sense. Once I started doing that, started treating myself the way I deserve (and everyone else deserves) to be treated... all the love and caring and compassion just started whooshing in from the outside as well.

I've been spending the last couple of months telling everyone that I feel like I'm falling in love, or somebody must have spiked my tea. I'll give you a hint: nobody has spiked my tea. I've fallen in love. I love myself. I love the life I have created. I love the people who love me. I still love the people who will never be able to love me, I just don't worry about it any more (or think it's my fault).

And yet, I feel like a total faker writing on this topic, since I was wrestling with my bullshit brain over this particular issue as recently as last week. (Now, don't go panicking on me, I wasn't in any imminent danger, I can keep using cutlery. It's just that there are still some bits that sometimes need some wrangling, or distracting with shiny things occasionally.)

But... I do know a bit (!) about suicide prevention.

Back when I was a kid, and I didn't really have any understanding of just how fragmented my brain and soul were (a pretty genius survival technique – thank you, neurochemistry – which got me through some desperate times, but wasn't terribly useful in later years), I already understood there was an internal battle. I knew there was a bit of myself – or perhaps even a few bits of myself – that flirted with the idea of "accidentally falling" off the subway platform just as the train was coming. Nothing that could be seen as intentional, of course, because that would open up a whole whack of unpalatable scenarios, depending on whether I succeeded or failed in my "accident", but... you know... elbowed off by a distracted commuter, caught by a big whoosh of air... anything that could keep me from being hospitalized and never taken seriously again if I survived, or turned into "the bad guy" if I succeeded. Fortunately, there were a lot of other bits who thought this wasn't such a good idea, and so I would plaster myself to the back wall until the train had safely passed. That way, even if one of us got the urge to dash, the rest of us could probably catch her before she reached the edge. To this day, when I go back to Tronna, I still tend to hold myself at the back of the platform, because the memories of those days are so intense, especially in the stations that haven't been re-tiled since the '80s (which I think are most of them... amIright?)

So... forget being a faker. I am a MASSIVE SUCCESS STORY when it comes to suicide prevention. I'm here to tell the tale.

The tale begins pretty early – although I can't pinpoint the exact date in my sometimes-swiss-cheese memory, it was some time after we moved to our new house partway through grade 3, but sometime before my brain finally caught up with my gut and could put a name to what my father was doing to me, which was grade 6-ish (which I acknowledge is a pretty long time in kid-years, but funnily enough, this didn't seem to be one of those so-important-it-imprinted-itself-in-my-timeline-forever moments). At some point in there, I first stumbled across my mothers suicide notes – yes, plural (and may I suggest to those of you who really wish to mess up your kids, that you should not only keep all your suicide notes as momentos, but you should keep them IN THE SAME DAMNED DRAWER as your nail clippers).

And so, it became my mission to keep my mother alive – inspired, in part, by the declaration on the occasional note that she wasn't actually going to do it this time (then why write and keep the note?!?), but would wait until "the girls" had grown and no longer needed her. So I had to strike the perfect balance between making sure she knew we still needed her, but not needing her in a way that would tax her already-limited resources. Because if she killed herself, we'd be alone with dad, who I already knew wasn't safe, even if I still couldn't necessarily articulate why. (And why her "I just can't handle this right now!" declaration when I finally was able to articulate why sent my brain and soul into a million more fragments of hopelessness.)

Of course, she never knew I knew (officially, anyhow, because who the hell keeps a pile of suicide notes next to the nail clippers and thinks they'll never be discovered?!?). So even when she remarried and switched the bedroom furniture around, I could still monitor the pile in the new drawer (which now included a whole bunch of things a young teenager should never have to see, but that's what happens when your mother keeps marrying sexual predators... but I digress...) and try to keep her (and us) safe. Shortly after that marriage dissolved and I was away at university, my sister found her stash of notes (hopefully not the other stuff) and confronted her about them – so I thereafter could never be sure whether the lack of notes meant she was feeling okay or had simply found a better hiding spot...

Before all that, though, was grade seven. When sexual predator #1 (a.k.a. "Dad") was still living with us. And someone who shared my desk in Mrs. Vanderhoof's class had left the lyrics to (what I later learned was) the M.A.S.H. theme song, "Suicide is Painless". (In hindsight, I've often wondered if it was my first childhood crush, Mark, who a few years later failed to plaster his back firmly enough against the back of the subway platform – but again at the time, it didn't strike me as strange that someone would leave notes such as these in easy-to-find places.)

I was entranced. And grateful to whoever had placed these beautiful words in the desk for me to find. They were so very obviously written specifically for me (!) A love note of sorts. I'm not sure if it's because part of my brain did 'get' what this paper was, and chose to not reveal it had been found, but instead of taking my "love note", I copied it out, word-for-word, and left the original in place. And when I got home, I copied it out again, in better handwriting. And considered making a beautiful calligraphy of it to hang on my wall, but... either Mom or Dad found one of the copies, and they hid away in parental discussion, before "the talking to".

Mom's part of the "talking to" was to explain to me how wrong and selfish suicide is (yes, really), and not really "painless", and then to pass me along to Dad, who was beside himself with worry, and needed "comforting". So everything obviously got a whole lot MORE jumbled up in my mind – yes even more impossibly more than they already had been. But I sure as hell knew I'd better stop showing interest (at least detectably) in such things, and keep my back fully plastered to the wall on the subway platform.

Unfortunately, not all of my bits agreed with this decision.

And those bits can still scream pretty loudly sometimes. Like last week, when I felt at the end of my rope, and broke down and asked for help with a pretty crappy situation – and was met with a super-thoughtless comment, by someone who should really have known better. And all those little voices started shouting about how I'm totally on my own, I'm too much, too needy, the world would be a better place without me, I'm too exhausted with this, it's never going to get better, blah blah blahdeeblah.

So, what does an Awesome Suicide Prevention Expert do in a situation like that?Well, I can start with what NOT to do. Because lots of people seem to believe the best thing to do is tell someone to "just think positive" and it'll all go away. Yeah, right. (I knew my initial gut reaction had been correct when hubby told our then pseudo-therapist he was having suicidal thoughts, and she told him to "jump up and down, because you can't be depressed when you're jumping up and down – yes, really).

First of all, do you not think that a depressed and suicidal person would LOVE to "just" think positive?!?!? This isn't simply a case of the blues, people, this is some serious neurochemistry going on. Neurochemistry that makes it FUNDAMENTALLY IMPOSSIBLE to feel positive. So making the person feel guilty or ineffective or like a total loser for not being able to think positive is not going to help. You're probably going to drive them even deeper into self-loathing.

And EVEN WITHOUT THE CRAPPY BRAIN CHEMISTRY, the only people who can think positive all the time have to be delusionally psychotic. Because guess what, sunshine? The world isn't all happiness and rainbows. Children starve, innocent people get killed, mudslides happen, tornadoes happen, people can be total assholes. Random things happen that are totally out of our control, and yes, MANY OF THEM SUCK.

You wouldn't tell a mother who'd just watch her child die a tortured and painful death to "just think positive" – so why the ever-loving f&#* would you say that to someone whose own brain is torturing and trying to kill them?

Even without a brain injury and/or chronic malfunction, shitty things can happen. Thinking positively about crappy things is actually NOT HEALTHY. Every single bit of science around trauma and mental health these days is telling us that the healthiest thing we can do for ourselves is ALLOW OURSELVES TO FEEL BAD when bad things happen. Cry, wail, shake your fist at the heavens, find healthy ways to comfort yourself, but MAKE YOURSELF FEEL THE FEELS.

Allow yourself to feel the feelings. Even if – ESPECIALLY IF – they're feelings that people generally don't want you to have. Feel 'em, get 'em over with, move on. Trust me, feeling your feelings and letting them run their course requires SO MUCH LESS energy than pretending they aren't there until they finally start eating at you from the inside out and you're having to double-check your proximity to the back of the subway platform.

So please, unrealistically shiny people, stop trying to convince us that life is all happiness and rainbows. Because freaking science has shown us that YOU DON'T GET RAINBOWS WITHOUT SOME RAIN HAPPENING FIRST.

Don't deny the rain's existenceIt's a necessary part of the process(Trying to convince us otherwise is both unhelpful and crazy-making)

Mental Health Pet Peeve #2: IT GETS BETTER. Sweet Jayzus...

Okay, it may sound really nice and hopeful in the moment, but it totally glosses over the fact that we're in REAL LIFE, not some frigging Disney movie of Happily Ever After.

Sure, it gets better. But then it gets worse. And then it gets a little better. And then it sucks donkeys. And then it gets better again. And then you're really soaring. And then something awful happens and it sucks again. And then it gets better, and then it sucks again. Because... LIFE.

Promising an ever-upward trajectory is totally unrealistic. And once again, makes someone whose brain is already out to get them feel like a total failure when life inevitably takes one of those downward dips. (Maybe if I'd jumped up and down more...)

This is life. It's amazing sometimes, it sucks sometimes. Yes, it gets better – BUT it doesn't stay there permanently.

What DOES get permanently better is your ability to make it through the crappy situations. You'll hopefully learn something from each situation, but more importantly, you'll realize you can make it through each one. (Crappy day? I survived my childhood, a crappy day is Luxury!!! ;) ) And with the end of each relationship or tornado or career path, you're still you – and while you may think you needed that friend or house or job or self-concept to make it through the world, you've proven that all you need is yourself and your integrity, and the rest is just icing.

I'd love to be able to promise you that life is an ever-upwards trajectory, but it ain't. Ever-inward, yes. Ever-outward, yes. But sucky things will continue to happen. Natural disasters, economic downturns, death, deception, freak accidents. And no matter how well-balanced and grounded you may be, the world is filled with millions of other people, many of them so absorbed in their own brokenness that they won't even notice when their own crap bowls you over and knocks your breath out. It happens.

Until you can control everyone and everything on the planet (HINT: you can't, so save yourself the effort), you might as well accept that sometimes life is gonna suck.

HAPPY SUICIDE PREVENTION DAY – people are assholes and life will always suck. Comforted yet?

So... lest you think those little fragmented voices have taken over Lyssy again... Realizing this is actually a good thing. Because the constant existence of bad events and uncaring people in the world means THE BAD STUFF ISN'T PERSONAL. It's got nothing to do with you. It's just the way the world works. (Now, don't go all defeatist on me – you can still go out and try to make things better, just be realistic with your self-expectations.)

Let's go back to last week. Somebody reacted to my despair in a ridiculously insensitive way. And sure, my broken bits started screaming "See? I TOLD you! The world is full of betrayal and meanness, and nobody will ever be here for us, because we aren't worth anything to anybody. We should just give up!!!!"

But do you know what this Awesome Suicide Prevention Expert did?

Awesome Suicide Prevention Expert said to those bits "yeah, I know that was a really hurtful thing that person just did. And I know it hurt really bad, and reminded you of all those other times that people you think we should be able to trust have betrayed us. Which feels awful. Because it was awful. That's why I protected you and said she shouldn't treat us that way, and she acknowledged her mistake and apologized. And I know it still stings, so I'm just going to sit here with you and your hurt until it feels better. And remind you that just because she said something thoughtless doesn't mean I'm gonna let her define how we think about ourselves. Because no matter how badly anyone else ever betrays us, you know that I never will."

The world will always betray each of us in big and little ways. But that's no reason for us to betray ourselves.

The world may not admit its mistakes and apologize as easily as the person who skewered my trust last week, but that's the world's problem – you and I can't let the world's occasional unapologetic sucky-ness define us. We can't allow life's betrayals to convince us to betray ourselves. We're better than that. We deserve more than that.

It's not about the world getting better. The world is the world. It's about developing our own resilience. So that when the proverbial hurricane shows up, and the world is whirring and destroying everything around us, we can simply (ha ha – not that simple, but it gets easier with practice) hang out in the centre and wait it out. The "I" in the storm. And maybe when it's all over, the roof needs some repairs and we finally got rid of that lawn furniture we never liked much anyhow, but we're still intact. Integrous. (My dictionary says that's not a word, but I refuse to betray myself over it.)

"It" might not ever remain permanently better, but I sure as hell will keep getting better.

And now, even my little bits believe me when I tell them I won't betray them. That I have their back and always will. That we can make it through the crappy times. That it's okay to feel sad and mad and overwhelmed, because those things show us what needs changing. And even when there's bad stuff, there's still puppies and love and ice cream, so let's just build a blanket fort and wait for the pretty rainbow that shows up as inevitably as the rain.

So laugh, cry, scream, shake your fist at the heavens. Take a chance, trust a mere mortal. Trust your gut, trust your feelings. Honour your gut, honour your feelings. Sit with all your little bits (we all have 'em, absolutely nobody has made it through life scar- or bit-free). Be afraid, be lonely, be sad, be whatever and whoever you are. Be there for your bits.

Because all those little bits want is to know they have somebody who will never betray them.Be that person.

Happy Suicide Prevention Day, from someone who's been an Expert for almost half a century. Your timing may be different, but if you're reading this, you're obviously an expert too.

Now THAT'S something to put in calligraphy and hang on your wall!]]>
Sat, 10 Sep 2016 17:09:33 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/happy-suicide-prevention-day-or-something
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/happy-suicide-prevention-day-or-somethingAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterKunghei fatchoy
not that I know of...), but my Shambhala group celebrates the lunar new year, and we're not even going to be doing that until Saturday, so I don't think I'm THAT late with my annual birthday / New Year's wrap-up... right? Heck, I missed last year's entirely, so... baby steps.

The previous birthday recap... ah, sigh... Suffice it to say that I wasn't in the best head-space for looking around or ahead, thank you depression, and thank you Frau Gatekeeper for digging the hole just a little deeper around birthday-time, because... yeah, nothing says "Happy Birthday" like spending a night with the friendly crisis hotline worker (although thank Dog for middle-of-the-night crisis hotline workers!).

Managed to pull myself reasonably out of that, just in time to receive the "Merry Christmas" diagnosis that my husband's cancer had come back. So... I wasn't feeling terribly festive, or communicative last year.

Here endeth the excuses.The Annual Wrap-Up

My word for 2015 was Restore. That word reached many pockets of my life, and I believe I "succeeded" in carrying it through – or at least working my way well along the path. It was primarily a year of self-care and husband-care. I'm slowly letting go of the need to "do", and allow myself to just "be" – slowly, but surely.

It was a rather slow year, musically (but that's okay). A strange finger injury I had sustained in November (practising rather lightly the day before a trio concert, my baby finger burst a blood vessel and was beautifully purple and painful – I made it through the concert, but don't think that helped things) prevented me from doing too much in the first few months of the year, and then I had to ease myself back in slowly.

The Brights did manage a really fun gig in January, though, before Don's treatment started (and I was able to avoid using my baby finger for the most part) – a Paul Simon tribute concert put together by Michael Wrycraft. We had a blast putting together arrangements of "The Obvious Child" and "Kathy's Song" for the show, with our friend Ray Dillard on percussion. I even got to become a geek, with a new octave pedal for my cello!

The Take Note! Music House also had a number of house concerts booked in, so we honoured all those dates – I guess it was a year of the music coming to us! David Essig, Jon Brooks, Ron Hynes, Emiliana Torrini with David Celia, Rick Fines & Roly Platt, Ben Sures, Leaf Rapids, The Young Novelists, Rob Lutes, and Laura Smith with Naming the Twins (I'm being lazy with the links, but they're all on the TNMH page if you're interested). All fabulous shows!

Don's radiation ran from February through April, with hormone therapy continuing through August, and while he didn't have nearly the severity of side-effects they warned us about, it was an exhausting process. Heck, I was exhausted, and they weren't even nuking me! So it was a few months of trying to take it easy. Which is not easy for me, but sometimes life has to clobber me before I learn my lesson (see "what I've learned", below).

We also joined a Shambhala meditation group, which has provided us with much-needed centering and grounding, as well as some lovely new friends. Giving myself permission to just sit is nothing short of a miracle! (Of course, I still catch myself writing "to-do" lists in my head sometimes, but... that's the practice.)

We got to celebrate the end of radiation by flying out west to enjoy the wedding of our friends Louise and Charles (and I learned another important lesson, which is always rent a cello – the one a friend of theirs brought me to use for the ceremony had been in a basement for a very long time and the strings broke the second I started to tune it), a week of wine touring, and a nice visit with our friends Ruth & Mike in Kelowna. It was really nice to get away and ENJOY life after all that time fearing the end of it.

And we stepped back into the musical world with a beautiful Solstice concert organized by our friend Ray Dillard, and held in the barn of our other friends, Roy and Sue. I can say it was beautiful because it wasn't just The Brights playing – it was an all-night concert from sundown to sunrise, with many of Ray's musical friends participating. It eased us back quite nicely (didn't have to worry about a full concert, just a handful of songs), and introduced us to some more opportunities and new friends.

Later, we also celebrated our fifth anniversary at Sir Sam's – a week which unfortunately didn't end terribly well, but all good things must come to an end. (And this new year of the Fire Monkey is about letting go of things that no longer serve you, so we're going to try someplace new this year.)

But the BEST CELEBRATION OF ALL came the day we returned home. On our way (well, a round-about-out-of-the-way, truthfully), we picked up our sweet little bundle of chocolate-y goodness, Macie. She has brought such joy into our lives, and reminded us of what it means to be living. Be curious. Play. Cuddle. Wiggle with excitement. Love everybody. You're never too big to be a lap dog.

First Day Home

Nap Time – 'Dog, Duckie, Don'

Graduation Day

In September, the Amity Trio had its final concert together, which marked the end of a (rather long, in hindsight) era. Although Marilyn Reesor (the trio's pianist) and I are collaborating in a number of projects, still. And I now have much more time to work on my own musical choices. Perhaps I was hiding a bit in an ensemble? I'm re-entering the soloist world for the first time in a long time, and digging in to some great music for cello. We're currently working on a program of Jewish music and a program of Russian music, which is all very meaty and emotional and wonderful to play (once I remind my left hand of what it was like when I was practising thumb position regularly...).

Other musical highlights include playing Snow Angel with Toronto's Oriana Women's Choir, and a lot of studio work at home with Don (no, not our music, other people's projects – that'll come).What I have learned this year

TAKE IT EASY!!!

Be grateful.

Sometimes being still is the most useful thing you can do.

Avoid the comments section. (This is proving most useful now that a certain trial is underway.)

I don't have to be perfect, or the best, or most useful, or work myself into a frenzy in order to lead a productive life, or be worthy of living it.

To let go of things I've held on to for too long, in order to embrace a whole bunch of new good stuff. (Welcome, year of the Fire Monkey!)

To take care of myself.

Don't trust a cello that's been in the basement for years – rent a good one.

That no matter how much I beat myself up over something, my dog still thinks I'm the centre of the universe (a position I share with Don).

Be curious.

Play.

Cuddle.

Wiggle with excitement.

Love everybody.

You're never too big to be a lap dog. (Although my jeans are telling me it might be time to get reacquainted with the Bowflex...)

What lies ahead

All that luscious cello music!

What would have lain ahead if I'd written this on time was a fabulous run of "Sunday In the Park With George" with Talk is Free Theatre. Closing night was Saturday, and it was TIFT's best-selling show since moving to Barrie, and got great reviews. It was wonderful to collaborate with actors again. I love collaborating with other musicians, of course, but there's a different energy when you're working with artists in other disciplines. We can all learn from each other, and contribute in our own ways. Now that I'm getting back in the swing of things, I hope to find more ways to push myself outside of "the usual".

I'm also involved in a new documentary project. Several years ago, a song of mine got published in Unlock the Door: Beyond Sexual Abuse by Deb Maybury. The book has done so well, that she decided to do a follow-up, but in film instead of prose. So my song "Sword and Wand" will be the theme music of the film. Of course, I originally wrote it on piano, and haven't played it for several years, so thank goodness for Marilyn, who saved me by playing the piano part for me! (Somehow I had this brilliant idea that I would be able to remember how to play it on piano AND teach myself how to play bass on it before Deb showed up with her camera two weeks later – just after Christmas. So apparently I haven't COMPLETELY shaken having totally unreasonable expectations of myself...)

More advocacy, more writing, more creating.

More stillness.

Dog help us, a baby brother for Macie, who will be coming home mid-March. (This might totally blow the previous point...)

More play.

More cuddles.My word for 2016 is Relationship. I look forward to cultivating it with myself, my hubby, my music, my friends, those crazy lab puppies, my community, and all of you.

Kunghei fatchoy!

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Mon, 08 Feb 2016 13:59:28 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/kunghei-fatchoy
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/kunghei-fatchoyAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterSqueaking it in: Still June, still Post-Traumatic-Stress awareness month
last year's post already says what I have to say about it. I'm not sure I have much to add, other than I'm in a much better head space than I was even a year ago, and it does get better.

But also because self-care is (finally) becoming an important part of my life and... I just didn't feel like writing anything. So I didn't. Because I'm the boss of me. 😀

Then I had a coffee date this morning with someone I know from the musical world, which turned into a lunch date, because we apparently have a whole lot more in common than either of us realized. She'd been asking a bit about the Katie Project, and I burbled and stammered with a bunch of non-answers about why it was on hold. And then I remembered I don't have to hide shit any more (my scared little girl has been running riot on my brain a bit recently, which is not helped when my angry teenager gets ahold of the corkscrew, so my addled adult self has been having a bit of difficulty reminding them who's in charge the last couple of weeks...). So I finally blurted out "I have post traumatic stress injuries and had a relapse and felt too overwhelmed" and was all prepared to go into an extended explanation of it all, when she laughed and said "me too!" and the tension was lifted. And we talked freely (and perhaps loudly – sorry neighbours!) with each other about our silly brain tricks and some of the stuff that created them, and did a lot of laughing and nodding.

Did I mention we've known each other for THREE YEARS?!?!?

Meanwhile, I've just been featured on People of Barrie saying you should let your freak flag fly, because that's how you find your tribe. WAS I NOT LISTENING?!?!? Shaking my damned head...

Do as I say, not as I do, people of Barrie (or anywhere).

So I've hidden the corkscrew and promised my kid a cuddle, but HERE'S MY FREAK FLAG. If you've got one too, wave it with me. Nobody should feel alone with this shit. (Although, as my coffee-date friend noted, sometimes we really WANT to be alone!)I've got complex post traumatic stress injuries, stemming from an incestuous and abusive childhood, compounded by some mighty abusive adult relationships which helped to cement all the bad lessons (I'm not worthy of good treatment, I'm not loveable, my role is to meet everyone else's needs and deny my own, etc., ad nauseam) I'd learned before. This clusterfuck (questionable wording? whatever...) of early bad experiences was rewiring my brain as it grew, and I'm in the process of trying to right-wire it – but damn it, that's an awfully tangled pile of cables. (And it's not exactly helped when certain individuals keep trying to rip out the good connections and tangle them back into the mess they started from.)

These faulty connections have me occasionally spacing out in the middle of a conversation, demonstrating an astounding startle reflex, adding "brain explosion" to the common "flight, fight or freeze" scenario, having to run as ringleader around all the injured bits that feel the need to take control in stressful times, nightmares, insomnia, fear of telephones (because you can't read body language over the phone), hypervigilance, hyperarousal (and not in the fun way, naughty-minded friends), regular "brainclouds", flashbacks, nasty body memories, anxiety, depression, hiding in the bathroom at parties... LOTS of fun stuff. Not 24-7, but enough that it's REALLY ANNOYING. (And I wonder how on earth I managed to survive when it was 24-7...)

But it's no longer 24-7. THANK DOG. With treatment, it does get easier. (And by treatment, I mean Trauma Therapy – make sure you're working with a CERTIFIED Trauma Therapist, not a fly-by-night-calls-herself-a-therapist-because-she-has-a-bachelor-of-psychology. One of those nearly killed my husband, and was one of the causes of my relapse two years ago. Certified and Accredited and Affiliated and Licensed Trauma Therapist – OR WALK.) The research into traumatic injuries – and how to repair the brain – has been and is still growing exponentially, and what they once thought was permanently hard-wired is not as permanent as previously believed. My first EMDR session (maybe 20 minutes long?) produced more tangible effect than the seven-year stint I had with a psychiatrist in my 20s. They're figuring this out – if my brain that's had over 4 decades of bad wiring can be rewired to not "go walkabout" all the time, anything is possible.

So yeah, I'm still struggling, and it's a lot of hard work, and sometimes I get really pissed off that *I'm* the one having to fix the shit that *they* did to me, but... I'm doing it. (Because "they" ain't stepping to the plate, and I deserve better.)

Pulling myself out of my mis-wired brain and bringing myself back into my body. Trusting my gut (hmm, isn't that another piece of advice of mine I used to ignore?), and my heart, AND my middle finger, and my feet – learning to let all these override the bad brain programming. Taking care of myself (gasp!), and considering my own needs and desires (double gasp!) – sometimes (gasp!) even before taking care of others (faint!). Speaking my truth (eventually).

Yoga, meditation, eating well, exercising (exer-whaaa?), making sure I get out of the house every once in a while, socializing (I actually managed 4 social events in 48 hours last week, people, and not only did I not go postal, I actually enjoyed myself!), brushing my teeth and buying myself new underwear BEFORE the old ones fall completely apart (seriously, why is self-care so freaking difficult?), listening to my body, being mindful, questioning assumptions.

Oh yes, and occasionally hiding the corkscrew ("Bu- bu- buut, nooooo, I neeeed them to seeeeeee how much paaaaiiiiiiiiiinnnn they're causing mmmmmeeeeeee!!!!!" – "Forget it kid, they didn't give a crap about that then, they aren't about to notice now. Plus your head will hurt tomorrow and we'll hate ourselves. Suck it up and have some water. And maybe eat some fruit and brush your teeth every once in a while.")So if this sounds familiar, know that you are not alone. That there is help. That this can get better.

If this is all new to you, then: HAPPY PTS AWARENESS MONTH! These injuries are often well-hidden, and there are far more of us walking around (or hiding out) in the world than you probably know. It's not just soldiers. It's not just adults. It's not restricted to any gender or race or socio-economic profile. It's everywhere.

Be aware. Be compassionate. Speak up.

And enjoy the last few hours of June. 😀]]>
Tue, 30 Jun 2015 18:50:14 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/squeaking-it-in-still-june-still-post-traumatic-stress-awareness-month
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/squeaking-it-in-still-june-still-post-traumatic-stress-awareness-monthAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterPart Deux: Conversations with Men about Rape CultureIf your memory is like this forty-something's, you might want to refresh yourself on the initial conversation with the brave and curious "A" here, in which he asks some important questions and I blather on for a bit, then we have juice and cookies and each of us feels better understood and enlightened.

When suddenly, "A" pops out the following idea:

"I had another thought this evening, would like to know what you think...

"I wonder to what extent this culture is a symptom of deeper structural problems in society. It's common in today's society for morality to trumped by corporate and financial interest. The argument could be made that the current unrealistic and unfavourable depiction of women in advertising and media etc is driven primarily by the constant competition of the capitalist paradigm. (ie. "If the woman on our billboard or in our movie is more 'desirable' than the woman on our competitions billboard/ movie, more people will look at it and we will therefore have a better quarterly statement.") It's frightening the extent that modern marketing goes to hijack our senses and grab our attention... I imagine that without the pressure for ever-increasing profits, we might be better able to focus on what's most beneficial and moral on a social level, rather than on whats the most profitable. This could be just one example, but it's just a thought I had :) "

Can I just say: BAM!!! (Followed by a happy dance and high fives.)

This, my friends, is why it's so important to get the conversation started with EVERYONE, inclusively. Because once the conversation starts, thoughts get churning around, and young men start to say brilliant things like "A" just did. And once one brilliant young man speaks up, other men can see that they're invited to join in the conversation.

And here's a fellow male, telling you why he feels men should be a part of the conversation and solution:

There has been lots more conversation, but my lunch is calling me, so I'll leave it at that for now. I'll try to get back to it in better time this time. :) ]]>
Thu, 13 Nov 2014 15:40:10 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/part-deux-conversations-with-men-about-rape-culture
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/part-deux-conversations-with-men-about-rape-cultureAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterConversations with men about rape culture
silencing victims, and it's been quite satisfying and encouraging. CONVERSATION IS AMAZING.

It is heartening that the conversation is finally taking place.

However, in talking with many male friends and colleagues, it seems that, far too often, the message these fellows are getting is that men are inherently evil and naturally predestined to sexually assault women. Which I do *NOT* believe is what's actually being said, But some guys certainly feel like that *IS* what's being said. And because I feel it's so important that men join women in these discussions, I think we need to be very very careful to not make them feel excluded.

Fortunately, despite all my passionate ranting about the subject, it seems I am still a person that (at least some) men feel comfortable talking to, and asking questions of. It's not always an easy conversation for anyone, but I'm happy the conversations are taking place, and respectfully taking place. There was a recent FaceBook conversation that some of my friends have asked me to recreate here – and with the permission of the friend who started it all, I'll do my best. :)A few days ago, I posted a link to this Toronto Star column by Dr. Gabor Maté: JG and the problem of narcissistic male rage (you probably want to read it first, to understand the rest of the conversation). There were a bunch of (female) folks who chimed in with comments about the article.

And then, a very brave and curious young man I know (I'll call him "A", because that's how original I'm feeling right now...) expressed his dismay over the article, stating (among other things, but he's asked me to not directly quote the whole thing) "I've seen a lot about this lately, especially since the whole [JG] thing. But I feel that this idea that men are natural rapists, and that if not handled carefully, they will inevitably go on to violate women... that's simply untrue." Which is a comment I've seen quite a bit recently (although not always so respectfully expressed, oh ye trolls in the comments section...). It concerns me that sweeping generalizations become "all men". It's not just the trolls who need to be careful in their expression. Just because we don't intend to say something doesn't mean that's not what's being received.

When I pointed out that I couldn't find any place in Maté's article (or the conversation it had inspired) that stated such things, "A" apologized, and said he must have been unconsciously responding to another article he had read earlier, by Rose Bianchini for ParentDish: How I'm raising my sons not to assault women (you probably should read that too, for context). Now, granted, the copy editor chose a *ridiculously* inflammatory title (which makes me once again plead that we find ways to talk about this that do NOT make men feel like they're evil-until-proven-innocent, people!), but the article itself doesn't go there. Whoever picked that title, however, should really have a stern talking-to, because I'm sure "A" is not the only man turned off enough by the title to not get the message of the article. DO BETTER, MEDIA!!!

"A" made a number of other points, but I believe the ones most relevant to the the part I've been asked to share in my blog were: "Personally, I don't feel that our culture is so full of pro-rape sentiment that we have to actively raise boys to not be sexually violent.. The fact remains that the vast majority of men do NOT rape women." As well as "People still kill and steal too, but I don't hear people talking about "murder culture" or "theft culture"."

Which was followed by me having a couple of days of computer mayhem that didn't allow me to properly reply right away, (hence the long-winded apology of an intro), but I was finally able to get this response out – which is what I was asked to post here, in the hopes that men (and probably some women) get a better idea of what we mean by the term "rape culture", as described by a women who knows not all men are rapists but has reason to be concerned about those who could be.

But hey, there's nothing like a long-winded intro, right? ;)Hi ["A"] – so sorry for the delay. I’ve been in COMPUTER HELL for a couple of days, and this wasn’t a response I wanted to type on the phone.

(Grab a coffee, I’m sensing this is probably going to be a longer-than-average FB response…)

Anyhow, I’ve finally had a chance to read that other article you’d posted, and… I don’t see her saying any of those things you were reacting to, either. So I’m not sure if you’re bracing yourself against what you’re afraid might be said, or if someone else has said such a thing to you, but… you seem to be arguing things that weren't actually in the articles. So I want to start off by making sure it’s clear that I don’t want you to take anything I’m saying personally, and that I am in no way saying that I think you are a rapist, or a dangerous person, or anything along those lines whatsoever. I don’t want to upset you any more than you want to upset me. When in doubt, refer back to this paragraph. :)

Like you and [another commenter], I was a little concerned about some of the “blame the parents” oversimplification and glossing-over of how girls dealt with parental “abandonment” in Gabor Maté's article. (Although, knowing how he writes in general, I just chalked it up to having to condense big thoughts into a tiny Star column – benefit of the doubt.)

But here, for what it’s worth, are my thoughts on his article:

I think it’s fairly easy to get triggered by the word “narcissist”. It conjures up big, nasty, egomaniacal-to-the-point-of-sociopath images for many. BUT... narcissism, like pretty much any other personal trait, occurs along a spectrum. We *all* have narcissistic traits within us, and a healthy dose of narcissism is… healthy! It’s when it’s approaching the more severe end of the spectrum that it causes problems – and there are events early in life that can cause it to swing really far in some people, as is finally being revealed in the case of JG.

Human nature being what it is, it’s also much easier for our fragile psyches to say “hey, what a monster he is!”, than it is to explore the environments that may have helped to create that “monster”, let alone recognize our personal and societal responsibilities for contributing to the “monster”-s environment. I believe what Maté is trying to do is explore how the environment of current society helped to shape JG, in the hopes of preventing the same situation from happening again. I think that’s an important thing to do in MANY areas of life these days.

For instance, we aren’t living in Nazi Germany, and not every politician is Hitler, but holy bejeezus, if you take the time to look at some of the things going on in society and politics that helped the Holocaust into existence, there’s some pretty scary shit going on in the world right now. Similarly, screaming “terrorist!” and “Al Quaeda!” or “ISIL!” (or whatever the monster-du-jour might be) every time a soldier gets targeted does not answer the questions of why that kid – who, as far as has been discovered, was NOT approached by any organization, but was messed up and was searching for his own reasons and “out” – turned into the type of guy who was a danger to society. But I digress...

Not all people in society turn into crazed gunmen. Not everyone who smokes gets lung cancer. But it’s important to explore why and how certain people get there, in order to do our best to prevent them from getting there.

(Time for a refill? How ‘bout a cookie?)

Similarly, I don’t think Bianchini was saying “how do I prevent my boys from becoming the rapists they’re destined to be?” I sense her as being more along the lines of “how do I raise my boys to be immune from the crappy messages that society is throwing at them?”. (I note she only has boys, I imagine she’d be saying the same thing for her girls if she had them.) Because society these days is telling both boys and girls a WHOLE LOT of awful stuff, and it’s all easy to miss until you really step back and view it from the outside.

While women are now able to vote and work and be treated as equals under the law, the societal messages that are screamed out about us have gotten much worse. The hyper-sexualization and objectification of women and girls is all over the place (advertising, media, politics, audio, video, the workplace, the language, etc.), and has descended to the point where young girls’ Halloween costumes look like hookers’ outfits, and “Toddlers in Tiaras” is somehow considered to be acceptable enough to be on major broadcasters’ feeds, instead of being hidden in a brown wrapper at the back of the kiddie porn section of a really nasty video store.

As I was discussing with a male friend the other day, my first year of university was the year when “No means tie her up” and “No means more beer”, etc., hit the headlines from my school (and don't get me started on what we females had to endure during frosh week...). Which supposedly shocked everyone and made universities work hard at making campuses safer for women. And yet, twenty-(cough)-something years later, universities are back in the news with frosh-week stories of songs about raping virgins, etc., being part of the “fun”. We haven’t “come a long way, baby” -- society’s message is still screaming that it’s somehow OK to treat people this way.

***Even if a person isn’t naturally predestined to believe such a message, if they hear it shouted enough times from enough angles, it starts to seep in and become normalized.***

Which is something that JG knew, and played upon brilliantly in his initial the-best-defence-is-a-good-offence FB post. The jilted lover, the vindictive girlfriend, the overly-sensitive folks at the office, the fact that he was such a nice guy that anyone who came forward saying otherwise was obviously lying. It was textbook. And everyone – other than those who knew the story (or, perhaps some of them too) – EVERYONE jumped on it, hook, line and sinker. Because these are our society’s archetypes.

With the JG case, with Reteah Parsons, with the missing and murdered aboriginal women, with the students raped by the U.S. football team – ALL of these cases have shown how quickly society (or at least the louder parts of society) is ready to jump on the victims. Yes, rape and murder and theft have been around forever and we will probably never be able to eliminate any of them entirely, but… rape and sexual assault are the only crimes in our current society where the knee-jerk reaction is to blame the victim and silence his or her story.

I don’t believe, in hindsight, that most of the people who jumped on that bandwagon initially are the types of people who think rape and sexual assault is OK. But we’ve just seen it demonstrated, pretty brutally, that this is still the first place the collective mind goes to. It’s very difficult to see these archetypes when you’re immersed in them, but we’ve just seen them in living Technicolor. And, as I said way, way above (!), it’s both men and women who jump into the myths. Because we’re so immersed in the archetype.

So, I think it’s important for ALL of us to take a look at what allows “monsters” to become “monsters”, and recognize our own roles in the monster-making. Because the above examples are really just a small sampling of some of the messages people are inundated with on a daily basis. Yes, it is true that the vast majority of people (male and female) are not rapists. But we need to take a close look at how we as a society allow those who rape or sexually assault others to perpetuate this behaviour.

Especially in light of the new revelation that JG has been getting away with this since at least 1988 (despite many people being aware of the problem) – society has a lot of ‘splainin’ to do!

(Thank you so much to "A" for coming forth with the comments and questions I'm sure many other men were afraid to make. High fives and happy dances to you, friend!)

So... that's the response I was asked by a few people to post. Hopefully it will help. I know that "A" appreciated hearing the answers to some of his questions. He also came up with a kick-ass observation himself, but I just realized I didn't get his permission to share that part, so... this may be continued!

Actually, the conversation did continue, and I think in an important way as well. But I need to ask permission from someone else for that part. So...

Stay tuned, for "Conversations with men about rape culture, Part Deux"! :)]]>
Sun, 09 Nov 2014 18:32:12 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/conversations-with-men-about-rape-culture
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/conversations-with-men-about-rape-cultureAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterAngry that assault victims aren't taking it to the police? STOP SILENCING THEM!For those of you who have been living under a rock, or blissfully un-tuned to Canadian media sources, a very prominent and popular radio host was accused of assault earlier this week by four women, and several more have now joined them, and from what we're hearing, there will likely be more to the story.

I have no intention of discussing this particular case. But what I *do* feel the need to comment on is the absolutely hideous online treatment of these women and their stories. Because if anyone ever doubted the concept of "rape culture", there are now pages and pages in the comments section of various publications and social media sites that show rape culture at its revolting finest. I have been gobsmacked by the number of otherwise well-educated and upstanding men and women who have jumped on the rape culture bandwagon, and have made copious use of the "unfollow" button.

The reactions started out with all the oh-so-typical: Rape jokes (seriously people, RAPE JOKES?!?!?), "they're just in it for the money" (erm... the only one asking for money is actually the accused, so, no), "they're just looking for the free publicity" (1. if that were true, why would they wish to remain anonymous in public?, 2. yeah, it's every girl's dream to be publicly shamed and hit with death threats and abuse from total strangers, I think I'll give it a try!), "they're just vengeful exes", "women lie about rape all the time" (uh, no – the stats for false accusation are pretty much the same as those for any other crime, and we don't immediately doubt the store owner who claims he was robbed), "hysterical bitches", "they just want to make men look bad", blah blah blah. Basically, the types of comments you can always expect from assholes. And, sigh... there will always be assholes.

But what freaks me out most has been the more insidious messages, made by people who seem reasonably... reasonable. On the surface, for instance, "innocent until proven guilty" is a very fair, balanced statement – just so long as it's extended to the complainants as well. Because if it becomes "well he hasn't been convicted so it can't be true" you are essentially calling the complainants liars. Furthermore, lack of conviction doesn't mean nothing happened – it COULD mean that nothing happened, but it could also mean that there wasn't enough evidence to convict, that they struck a deal to avoid muckraking, or any number of other things.

I am reminded of the day my mother stumbled upon my blog post that referred to her marrying my step father as "thus introducing sexual predator #2 into our I-thought-it-was-finally-going-to-be-happy home". Her response (not to me, but to everyone on her email list who was a friend of mine, it seems, but that's a whole other story...), was that he wasn't convicted until a few years later. Erm, yeah... somehow forgetting that in order for a conviction to happen, HE HAD TO HAVE PREVIOUSLY DONE SOMETHING WRONG. Which he did, and was already doing. That's how the conviction eventually was successful. And at the time she made that response, I thought it was just another example of her gas lighting and not making sense for the sake of self-defence, but now I'm seeing that this happens all over the place – Not Convicted = Not Real.

"Innocent until proven guilty" has become "if you haven't got a squeaky-clean record yourself, and have a poop-load of evidence to back you up and are able to convince a still-not-friendly-to-sexual-assault-victims system to agree that the person you're accusing is guilty BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT, then... You Were Not Assaulted."

Which is insane.

But that's not even the part I wanted to address. I've gone off on a tangent. (Although an important tangent.)

Some other tangents? "How can they expect us to believe them if they're anonymous?" (the threats and accusations and assumptions in the comments sections should make it pretty obvious why they don't want to give their names – although look, one brave soul now has, which brings us to...) "I can't believe them if they haven't gone to the police." "I can't believe them if they won't press charges." "I can't believe them if they took so long to report." etc., etc., etc. There are, fortunately, a number of brilliant people who have written about why assault victims don't go to the police, don't press charges, stay silent, etc. I will share just a few links, but please feel free to share more in the comments section below (I moderate this comments section, for what should be obvious reasons!).

OK, so now that Lucy DeCoutere has (hopefully!) put an end to all those stupid "I won't believe anonymous victims" posts, we now get to the type of silencing behaviour that I wanted to address, because I haven't seen anyone else deal with it yet. And it's important, because I see so many people using it, and I think it's one of the top reasons why victims not only don't say anything to the police, but don't say anything to ANYBODY. And it's this:

"If he was so awful to her, why didn't she leave immediately? Why did she talk to him again later?"

Ms. DeCoutere touched on her own feelings and reasons in this excellent CBC interview, but I'd like to expand on some of the UNIVERSAL reasons for this all-too-common phenomenon. And the all-too-common reason why victims aren't believed. Because people need to stop using a victim's confusion or seemingly illogical behaviour against her or him – BECAUSE CONFUSION AND ILLOGICAL BEHAVIOUR ARE TWO EXCELLENT SIGNS THAT AN ASSAULT HAS TAKEN PLACE.

Hopefully it's easy for everyone to understand that suddenly and unexpectedly getting punched in the head and/or choked and/or slapped and/or raped by someone you know and trust is an incredibly traumatic event. Yes? With me so far?

What you might not know is what happens to a person's brain and body during a traumatic event. Yes, there is the obvious physical trauma of a blow to the head or a lack of oxygen, but what is less obvious is the internal trauma. A neuroscientist would be better at explaining the finer details of what I'm about to describe, but here's the basics a-la-Lyss for we laypersons:

When a traumatic event occurs, the brain receives the signal "crap, I'm in real danger here", and does it's damnedest to try and get us out of danger. We all know about the fight-or-flight-or-freeze phenomenon, but there are other internal emergency procedures going on inside. We get flooded with an explosion of various neuro-chemicals, some brain functions get stopped or slowed down, while other brain functions go into hyper-drive. All the various bits of the brain are so busy trying to do their job at rescuing us, that they don't have time or resources available to communicate effectively with each other. In trying to make sense of what's happening and store the information to protect us from potential future danger, all sorts of information is hastily filed with all sorts of other information (you should see the "filing" system in my office right now... argh!), and some serious "re-wiring" of neural connections takes place. Depending on the level of threat and the duration of the threat, this re-wiring and neurochemical flooding can cause massive injury to the brain – we know it as Post Traumatic Stress, but it's essentially a bad Brain Injury, caused by neurochemicals rather than a physical trauma (although, if part of the trauma was getting punched in the head, then the physical trauma to the brain would also affect and compound the neurochemical trauma).

There are many possible effects to this type of brain injury. Dissociation, confusion, losing track of a timeline around the point of trauma, memory loss, minimization, numbing, and so many more. Sometimes this lasts a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, sometimes days, weeks, months, or even a lifetime if untreated. And in all that confusion, it's easy to doubt yourself. And if you doubt yourself, how the hell can you expect anyone else to believe you?

Amidst all the forgetting and dissociating and confusion and doubt, yes, it's quite likely that in this state of Traumatic Shock, you will act like nothing has happened. You will make decisions that don't seem to make sense because... well, because they don't make sense. Because your brain isn't functioning the way it normally functions. BECAUSE YOU HAVE A BRAIN INJURY.

But here's the thing, and I need everyone to pay attention here: Unlike physical brain injuries, the healing of Traumatic Brain Injuries is directly affected by other people's reactions and support. Because when a victim is lost in an injured brain fog, other people's doubts and questions will only increase his or her own confusion – the victim's thoughts and doubts and confusion and mistrust and self-blame and other painful brain activity will CONTINUE TO INJURE him or her, and compound the injury. Reminders of the event will shoot off little "aftershocks" of those neurochemicals (my brain is so "primed" for this still, that if something scares me, it totally feels like my entire head is exploding), other people's doubt and questions add to and stir up the soup, and the injury gets worse.

I must repeat: Casting aspersions on a victim's story INCREASES their TRAUMA. If your first reaction to a victim's truth is doubt or blame or accusation, then you are re-victimizing the victim.

And someone who already doubts themselves and is questioning everything they remember already KNOWS that they aren't going to be able to convince anyone of their story. Not telling their story is actually the subconscious protecting their story until they can be sure enough to tell it. But if their first telling is met with the same vitriol I've seen splashed across the internet this week, they're not likely to try again for a very long time. It doesn't have to be hundreds of thousands of internet trolls, it can be one person saying "are you sure?", or "that can't be!" or "I don't believe you" or "what did you do to bring this on?" to have this effect.

And the longer a person is silenced, the more abuse the perpetrators manage to get away with. The more other victims believe they're all alone. And the longer the person is silenced, the easier it is to stay in that cycle of self-doubt and blame – and the easier it is for people to dismiss their story when they finally get the nerve to share it. Which is an awesome (!) way to perpetuate the type of environment where rapists can get away with being rapists.

Keeping doubt in and blame upon the victims of sexual assault is what rape culture is all about. If you refuse to believe a victim's story until a conviction has gone through (did you see that graphic above?!?), then you are a part of it. If you refuse to offer support and validation when a victim tells his or her story, then you are also guilty of injuring the victim.

I do not wish to minimize sexual assault, nor do I wish to speak for every victim in what I'm about to say, but: for me, the reactions (or non-reactions) of the people I initially told my story to have had more serious and longer-lasting damage than the sexual abuse and assaults ever did. I have, with some excellent treatment and therapy, pretty much gotten past the sexual trauma. What I still fight, constantly, is the trauma of not being believed, of the blame, and the doubt and the minimization and the gas lighting and the impossible requirement to "prove it". Those injuries are still deep-seeded in my brain, and my body, and it's an endless battle trying to lessen their effects on my day-to-day life.

So please, people, STOP getting angry at the victims for not going to the police. Stop questioning why someone who'd just endured a trauma would have a few memory gaps, or do something slightly illogical, or have the short-term version of Stockholm syndrome, or whatever. Be considerate, be compassionate, be supportive, ACCEPT THEIR STORY. If not, you are a part of their injury, you are a part of why victims are afraid to speak out, you are a part of rape culture.

Stop imposing what YOU, as a non-traumatized, non-injured person would do in the victim's shoes, and recognize that you aren't them and they aren't you, and you haven't got a frikken' clue how you'd react while in the grip of a traumatic brain injury. Do the same thing you'd do for a car accident victim, or an earthquake victim, or a workplace-accident victim: LISTEN TO THEM, support them, ASK THEM what you can do to assist, and then help them. And then pray to whoever you wish that you are NEVER in their shoes.

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Thu, 30 Oct 2014 18:05:29 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/angry-that-assault-victims-aren-t-taking-it-to-the-police-stop-silencing-them
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/angry-that-assault-victims-aren-t-taking-it-to-the-police-stop-silencing-themAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterNew beginnings… and no more orphaned zombie kittensI've been looking at photos friends post of their kids' first day at a new school, or the empty-nesters posting pictures of their kids' new dorm rooms as they head off to university. I've always loved this time of year, with all the new beginnings, excitement and anticipation. It always seems more "New Years"-y to me than January 1st -- the beginning of the new calendar year feels basically the same as the end of the previous one, albeit a bit more hung over, which doesn't really seem like a great way to get started, to me...

Nope, September is and probably always will be the new year for me, even though it's been a couple of decades (really?!? gawd, really...) since I've started a new school year. It's the new outfit, the new school supplies, the new teachers, the new classmates, the renewed hope that maybe, just maybe, I'll prove myself to not be a total geek this year and not feel like such an outsider (followed quickly by November, by which point I've remembered that no new outfit will ever erase my status as geeky outsider, and try not to think about the months of darkness still to come, but I digress...)

And here I am, sitting in our new living room looking out at our little forest grove with smatterings of red and yellow, and I'm thinking about change and hope. No new outfit (dang, maybe I need a new outfit?), and I now wear my "geeky outsider" badge with pride and appreciation for the strength and beauty of NOT being like everyone else, but I'm still thinking about change and hope, and setting a few new-years-resolution-type dreams down for myself.

Change, of course, has been happening all around me and within me. It's been rather an eventful couple of years, and the changes have decidedly NOT been as planned on the first day of school two years ago. It's been a period of loss, endings, heartbreak, disappointment, picking up the scattered and fragmented pieces and attempting to put them... well, not back together in the same way they were (otherwise the gift of the tragedies would be wasted), but in a newer, stronger, wiser form. The two-year plan had to take a hiatus -- and, honestly, I'm not sure if all the points on that plan will be renewed. (Although I will admit I cringe when people ask me about where I've been playing recently, etc., and I have to say it hasn't happened -- somehow I still expect myself to do a major life overhaul AND be a multi-tasking superstar all at the same time... sigh...)

It's been a swirling, overwhelming whirlwind for a while, and yet the changes started to move in a more forwardly direction this spring -- some big and obvious stuff, such as Don and I moving into our dream home, but also the more internal and quiet stuff, such as my finally reaching the point where I could admit I deserved a dream home, and put some resources into taking care of my own desires rather than giving them all away to orphaned zombie kittens or something.

I'm still coming to grips with the "I deserve what I desire" concept, and can still be overcome with paroxysms of guilt when sitting on our nice new comfy couch that isn't a threadbare hand-me-down from my parents' first apartment, but it's coming along. At least I have the couch (and my parents' ancient loveseats are gracing the Orillia dump, because they were so gross that not even the Freecyclers wanted them!). So the changes have been heading toward the upswing in recent months already, paving the way for the glorious new beginnings of September.

And along comes my daily TruthBomb (courtesy of Danielle Laporte) on this, the auspicious first day of school:

Shatter the legacy that's holding you back.

And I breathe deeply. And wonder if she's been eavesdropping on all my beginning-of-September musings... This is what all the endings have been about. This is the gift -- it hasn't just been my heart and soul and relationships that have been shattered in the slammed-shut doors of the last couple of years, it's those nasty ties that I've been wrapping around everything to try and keep the damned doors open. The doors that I shouldn't have been trying to keep open, because they were wearing me down, eating at my soul, destroying my authentic self. I'd been sacrificing myself not just for those orphaned zombie kittens, but for everyone and everything that was sucking the life out of me. Those doors needed to be slammed shut, and those psychic super-strong elastic bands snapped and jettisoned.

Those legacies are strong: I don't deserve to be taken care of (or to take care of myself). I have no right to protect myself. I must put everyone else first or nobody will love me. If I stand up for myself or take care of myself, everyone will leave.

That is, of course, how life worked for me, and how I survived it when I still needed to be taken care of. But now I'm forty-(cough!)-something, and that shit no longer works. Losing myself to try and keep doors from slamming shut has not and will not work any longer. If looking after myself means a door slams shut, then that door wasn't meant to be open.

And sure, maybe that means I'll be all alone, but at least I'll be all alone with my authentic self, sitting my oh-so-fit arse on a comfy couch and eating nutritious food washed down with a tasty Rioja while listening to beautiful music and looking at trees, water and art.

So, here's my school-year resolution: to make taking care of my body and soul my top priority (and not feeling guilty about it my second). To not give in to the soul-suckers' emotional blackmail. To let slammed doors stay shut, and maybe paint a pretty mosaic on my side of the door, because I like looking at nice things.

Once I get more solidly into this habit, I'm sure the items on my perennial to-do list (Katie Project, novel, music career, orphaned zombie kittens...) will start falling into place, assuming they're still things that nourish my body and soul. But I'll never have the energy for any of those if I don't first take care of myself. Yes, be "selfish" and look after my basic needs -- gasp!

It's September. The first day of a new year. The trees are starting to burst with beauty. I will join them.

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Tue, 02 Sep 2014 12:37:38 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/new-beginnings-and-no-more-orphaned-zombie-kittens
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/new-beginnings-and-no-more-orphaned-zombie-kittensAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterJune is PTSD awareness month, hold the "D"Aaaannnnd this is June. Pretty much closing in on the end of June...

I've been meaning to write about PTSD awareness month since I received the above reminder on June 1 from a PTSD and C-PTSD support group I'm in, and… haven't made a peep. I suppose I could blame moving, or my taxes, or myriad other things, but… The truth is, I just don't like writing about stuff when I'm knee-deep in the muck of it. I'd much prefer to be able to say "hey look, I got to the other side of of it, and you can too!"

But I'm not at the other side. And if I'm going to be totally honest, I'm kind of fed up with myself for not being totally "over it" by now. Which I know is unrealistic and nasty of myself to put on myself, but let's face it, being nasty to yourself is just sooooo easy! So it's been an exercise in frustration and avoidance this month, trying to figure out how to be inspiring, uplifting, and come up with something to say about the topic other than "it sucks and I'm sick of it."

It does get better, I can tell you that. Just not at the pace or to the degree I'd prefer. And after the last year and a half, I'm realizing that once I beat this round of it, I'm not going to be able to rest easy and pretend it's never going to happen again -- the next bad thing that happens that reminds me of the previous bad things will probably set me off again. Only then, at least, I'll have had lots of practise using the new tools I've been learning from my trauma therapist. (And, if my campaign is successful, a therapy dog!) But that old "the years before five last the rest of their lives" campaign seems to have a mountain of truth to it -- and while science is discovering tons of new ways to manage and re-wire traumatized brains, it's also showing that the trauma's initial re-wiring (especially if the trauma happened in childhood and/or was chronic -- yay, I have both!) causes some massive changes to the brain, many of them permanent.

There ya go, your Debbie Downer moment. THIS IS WHY I SHOULDN'T BE WRITING INSPIRATIONAL SHIT RIGHT NOW. But hey, as The Bloggess always says, depression lies. So you probably shouldn't listen to me anyhow, because depression is one of the most common symptoms of trauma (there, at least I was educational, if not inspirational…).

So I'm going to ask you to listen to someone else instead. Or, at least, listen to me tell you about something someone else said that meant a great deal to me and I think is important.

Last month-ish, I went to a conference on trauma and addiction. (No not as an example. ;) ) There were many workshops dedicated to music therapy and the arts as tools for healing trauma, which I was hoping would give me inspiration and information to help with the Katie Project. Bonus prize was that I got to learn more about myself and my wacky brain in the process.

Now, when I first was told I had C-PTSD, it was one of those "aha!" moments, where everything that had never made any sense suddenly made sense. There was a reason why I do and think and feel some of the things and ways I do and think and feel, and it wasn't because I was stark raving mad (OK, some of the things I do and think and feel ARE because I'm a little nuts, but not all :) ) The weird memory blackouts, the barfy-feeling when I encounter certain smells or sights or sounds, my over-active startle reflex, the hyper-vigilance, the moments of overwhelm, the anxiety attacks, fear of being in public, being an emotional sponge, the insomnia… all those and more finally had an explanation. I wasn't alone, these were all classic symptoms -- normal reactions to an abnormal situation. Having a name for it, an explanation, was tremendously comforting. Being understood is an amazing feeling, especially if you've never had that before.

So back to the conference, where I was surrounded by people who understood, and who were helping me to better understand the strange goings-on of my brain, and information-junkie me was just soaking it all in. When, WHAMMO! The day 2 breakfast speeches (yes, I was at the breakfast speeches) gave me another "aha!" moment that rocked my world and gave me a new perspective on PTSD and C-PTSD. One that has inspired me to drop the "D" from now on.

James Buffin, a film-maker who has survived his own share of trauma and has used film and photography in his own healing journey and now to help with others, delivered the "aha!" moment as he appealed to all the therapists in the room (and the conference was mostly for therapists) to drop the "D". (In case you've been living under a rock, PTSD is short for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.) He said -- and I am paraphrasing -- that if a woman walked into the emergency ward with a broken arm or black eye, nobody would say she had "Broken Arm Disorder" or "Black Eye Disorder", they would say she had a broken arm or black eye, and that she'd been injured. Why then, should we be labelled as having a "disorder" when we have similarly been injured? "Disorder" implies there's something wrong with US, somehow, rather than recognizing that someone or something else has injured us. My brain didn't get re-wired because of something inherently wrong within me, it got re-wired because something (or many things) inherently wrong HAPPENED to me.

There are so many people suffering from the effects of PTS injury and C-PTS injury, and there is an inordinate number of those suffering who WILL NOT GET THE HELP THEY NEED because of stigma, because they're afraid this represents a character or personality flaw in themselves, that they aren't strong enough, etc. Referring to our injuries AS INJURIES erases the shame and stigma attached to "disorder", and can help reach across that chasm and lead people to the medical and psychiatric attention they need, and help them live fuller, happier lives. OR JUST LIVE (suicide being one of the most evil symptoms of post-traumatic stress).

So let's drop the "D", shall we? We have brain injuries, inflicted on us through traumatic events or situations. As with physical injuries, there are varying rates of recovery -- after a certain amount of time, you'll no longer see a cut on someone's arm; a broken arm will heal fully although in some will still be fragile depending on the type of break; a lost arm won't come back, but you can learn ways of working around that. It's the same for brain injuries: some are easier to heal from than others (and brains are pretty elastic and amazing!), some will never disappear but you learn to work around them. And while these injuries are a part of our lives, they are not about who we are, but what happened to us.

My name is Alyssa. I have a Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Injury. I've survived a lot of shit, got the scars to prove it. They're part of who I am, but they don't define me. I also like cookies. :)]]>
Sat, 28 Jun 2014 17:37:17 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/june-is-ptsd-awareness-month-hold-the-d
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/june-is-ptsd-awareness-month-hold-the-dAlyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterHappy New Year… Please???Hmm… I have been putting this blog off. Very well, to give myself some credit.

Since my birthday, really. You know, when I do the birthday recap, what have I learned this year, and what do I hope to learn next year thing… Which I had every intent of doing, but then Frau GateKeeper decided, once again, to use my birthday (and, one month later, Christmas) as an opportunity to remind me just how worthless I am, and seems to have successfully recruited some other close relations into my "shunning", which -- as was obviously the intent -- hurt like hell. So I wasn't really in the head space to recap the year, or think of anything positive about it, and the only thing I wanted to learn was how to do some very naughty things that would probably land me in prison.

So I figured I could be forgiven for postponing the annual wrap-up to New Year's. Which… well, I guess it's still New Year's Day, but I've been studiously avoiding this all week, not to mention the numerous naps, and games of Angry Birds and casket solitaire that have happened today.

And even Pollyanna-Me is having difficulty finding the silver lining I always want to include, lest I convince someone (or myself) that life just sucks and you might as well give up now. Reading some other bloggers I follow, I see I'm not alone in that this year. Strangely, that gives me comfort.

I know a few who have refused to choose a word for the coming year, because 2013 was just so devastatingly disappointing. I'm tempted to join them. But I'm also stubborn -- even if I have to work past the naps and Angry Birds and casket solitaire...

You see, last birthday, and last New Year's, things were already pretty damned sucky. Frau GateKeeper was having a hay-day, and her attacks were at an all-time high. (These attacks have gone in waves over the years, as somehow she keeps forgetting my initial disclosure of my father's sexually abusing me, plus forgets the numerous times she's since heard me telling the truth about it and attacked me for it each time -- and with each wave the attacks have escalated to the point where I've finally realized I'm just not emotionally safe anywhere near the woman, and never will be.) But the thing is, at the time, I thought that was the worst it was going to get. That I'd finally realized there was no safe way to connect with her, removed myself from her firing range -- and while it hurt, at least I was finally doing something to protect myself, and would never allow anyone else to treat me so badly again. I was down, but digging myself out, and ever hopeful for the future.

And so, when choosing my "Word of the Year" for 2013, I chose "Daring". I envisioned myself throwing away those chains that had held me back for so long, taking those daring leaps and soaring. The year did, in fact, begin with me doing just that -- making some incredible connections to help make the Katie Project come into reality, dancing (!) for One Billion Rising, assisting fellow survivors through peer groups, writing again, and starting to feel like I was finally doing my life the way I was supposed to all along.

When, WHAMMO!, the universe decided to pull a 180 on me. Apparently, "Daring" was not supposed to be my word of the year, the universe made it a tie between "Betrayal" and "Abandonment". Those have certainly been the themes. From the GateKeeper and her newly-recruited minions to my husband to friends I thought I had to even my damned (now ex-) therapist*, the people I thought I could count on to be there for me through thick and thin were dumping me in the ditch or tossing me under the bus or dumping me in the ditch after running over me with the bus. It was down to me and two girlfriends (later, a third) -- and with the resurgence of my abandonment issues and C-PTSD flare-ups, I wasn't really able to count much on me, either. Even my own brain and body were turning against me.

[* A little break for an important Public Service Announcement: Contrary to my previous assumption, the title "Psychotherapist" is NOT regulated in Ontario -- while they are bringing in new regulations, at the moment anyone and their dog can claim to be a psychotherapist, and not have to belong to any of the regulatory bodies, let alone follow their rules and policies. Including, you know, things like ethical behaviour or -- something I thought was a no-brainer, myself -- CONFIDENTIALITY. Not to mention, having the skills required to work with clients in a healthy and helpful manner. As we later found out, this woman has quite a (ridiculously bad) reputation among ACTUAL psychological health practitioners, and every time we've related anything she said to REAL therapists, they have a hard time keeping their eyebrows stable. Initials are S.F., working in Simcoe county. Run for your life (quite literally -- she apparently believes mockery and humiliation are proper ways to deal with suicidal thoughts, and you can't be depressed if you jump up and down) and search out someone actually registered with the OCSWSSW or OACCPP or other governing body to get the competent, professional, and confidential help you deserve.]

So the annual wrap-up is: from March through December, I got very little done. None of the dreams or goals I'd laid out for myself were attained or completed. Zero to report. Nada. Niente. The Katie Project is on the back burner until I have the mental and emotional energy to give it the attention it deserves. I've barely booked any gigs because I don't know when I'll get the energy back. I haven't written anything. This entire year has been one gigantic unpaid sick leave, and if one more person asks me what cool projects I'm involved in, they might find themselves wiping snot from my nose as I wail from the corner in a foetal position. I have no cool projects. Trying to stay grounded and present and snot-free has been my overwhelming project this year. I'm not sure if I've even succeeded at that. No, I know I haven't.

What did I learn this year? Everything I'd worked so hard to un-learn in the decades before (I'm unworthy of love, loyalty, compassion, having my basic human needs being met, etc.).

But then, girlfriend #1 (bless you, Ali!) introduced me to the Trauma Centre. And I've been learning a lot. Of the good stuff. Seems I hadn't quite finished in the cognitive therapy department -- I've been hanging on to a lot of really bad assumptions, and using them as excuses for others to treat me really badly, or to ignore my own senses, or deny my own feelings. Yes, even after decades of therapy, I've still got a few more mountains to cross… Both Don and I have been lacing up our hiking boots, jabbing in the pitons, and helping each other across the terrain (when we aren't threatening to jab the pitons into each other's legs, of course…). It hasn't been fun. It hasn't been easy.

And, after a "Couple's Intensive" workshop weekend we went on in the fall, and the first bit of advice given to me from Terrence Real, I'm learning not to smile. Which is harder than it seems. When you've spent over 40 years denying your feelings, it's difficult to even acknowledge them, let alone show them. A cheery smile and laugh has always been my best defence -- I embarrassingly remember being fired from a job for the first time (retail clothing sales, I was awful at it!) and laughing hysterically, hearing in high school that a good friend had lost his leg in a horrific accident and giggling like a fool, or my first husband and I deciding to divorce while I skipped merrily on the sidewalk as he watched, dumbfounded. Feeling or showing anything but cheery has always been a dangerous thing for me, from keeping up appearances in my birth family and keeping secrets about my father, to present time when the GateKeepers et al feel the need to punish me every time I admit to having been hurt, for hurting now, or for taking the necessary steps to avoid being hurt again.

It's all very clear when you're looking at it from the outside. When your trauma brain hasn't gone on walkabout or into a wingy fit.

I deny my own feelings in order to avoid being attacked for them. When I do get attacked for them, instead of thinking "what an asshole for trying to make me feel what they'd rather I feel", I go into "I shouldn't feel that, what's wrong with me?" and the cycle continues. I've got my work cut out for me… or rather, my trauma therapist has her work cut out for her! OK, it's me doing the work, but her showing me how. This may be long and expensive. :)

This, of course, is probably just the tip of the iceberg. She does have to work slowly with me, so my brain doesn't go on walkabout or into a wingy fit. I'm seriously considering getting a PTSD dog. Don thinks it's just one of my ploys to get him to let me have a puppy. He could be right, but the way my brain and body have been rebelling this year, I truly feel that it would be practical as well as adorable. :) If you agree, you can offer to write me a letter of recommendation to include with the service dog application that Don may or may not know about ahead of time… ;)

It's amazing what stays in the body. And in the brain. I've learned how to live on less sleep again, because the nightmares and hyper-vigilance have done a number on my usual 8-hour necessities. Of course, considering how unproductive I've been this year, you might argue that I haven't really learned how to live on less sleep…

I'm learning how to get back into my body. Which I can't say I like very much. There are some really good reasons why I abandoned it years ago and retreated into my head -- it hurts too much. Going back in really and truly is painful. There's a lot of shit stored down there that I was hoping to forget in the next move (never works, but I keep hoping…). I'm kind of surprised it hasn't already killed me in my sleep -- but maybe that's why I'm not sleeping much.

I'm learning how to trust my gut -- which, as many friends will remember, was a mantra taped onto the fridge in my previous house. I obviously should have posted a new one here. I'd get a tattoo if I weren't so freaked out by needles. I'm slowly learning that it's not my job to make people feel better. "No Rescuing", "Not My Responsibility" and "Trust Your Gut" were the three mantras staring from my old refrigerator. I'd forgotten them in the last six and a half years since the move, obviously. Time to re-learn.

OK, how's this -- I've learned that I'm capable of more learning. And probably still require a lot of it. But I've now got experts working with me, and I'm learning. And I've learned that I've got two amazing girlfriends who I love beyond belief, and while I don't wish anything bad to happen to them, I hope I can be there for them in the same way they've been here for me this year.

What do I hope to learn in 2014? Everything I've missed so far.

There, that's not too much pressure on myself, is it?

I have hopes, I have dreams, I have goals. Of course. Most are the leftovers from 2013. So stating them for a second year reminds me of disappointment and fills me with dread. I really don't want to pressure myself. I can't afford to pressure myself.

So the overarching theme, my "Word of the Year" for 2014 isn't about goals or achievements or who or what I think I ought to be. It's about what I need to do for myself. For the people around me. For those who love me and know what that word really means. Who understand that "Love" isn't a word, or even a feeling, but an action. A series of actions, a series of decisions, not something you merely write at the bottom of a Christmas card or say as you're pummelling the target of your "love" into a ditch under a bus. A word to show myself and those around me what I *AM* worthy of.

Initially, I though my word was going to be "Healing", but that seems to imply an outcome, a goal -- something I'm capable (more than capable!) of falling flat with again. Too much pressure.

This next year's word isn't about pressure, it's about giving myself what I need. Giving myself what I've always needed, but was never given, so I always assumed I didn't deserve it, or was too demanding for wanting it in the first place.

Happy New Year, everyone. That's a wish from the bottom of my heart, for all of us, but especially for those who I know were struggling with 2013 as well, and who are having difficulty staring into the face of yet another year. We can do this. We deserve to do it well.

As The Universe told me this morning, "[we are all] infinite, powerful, fun-loving gladiators of the universe, with eternity before [us] and the power of [our] thoughts to help shape it."

I'm putting on my tiara and hiking shoes, packing a nice bottle of Rioja, some good brie, and my new toolbox, and sliding in to a nice, hot bath. How about you?]]>
Wed, 01 Jan 2014 21:24:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/happy-new-year-please--2
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/happy-new-year-please--2Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterGratitude -- yes, reallyThanksgiving last year, I was in a state of wide-eyed anticipation, eager to get started and continue on a number of projects dear to my heart, looking forward to family visits and other usually-joyful occasions.

The year in between, however, has been characterized by betrayal, abandonment, and loss. Each of my closest primary relationships -- other than the girlfriends, god bless the girlfriends! -- in fact, has dealt me a blow of abandonment and/or betrayal this year. In spectacular fashion. And may I defy the censors and emphasize, in spec-fucking-tacular fashion. This is a year which has left me crumpled in a heap on the floor, from which I am still attempting to gather up my pieces, and hoping some of the prettier ones will be krazy-glue-able back together.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but this year has truly sucked. In spec-sucking-tacular suckitude (bite me, spellcheck!).

The year that was supposed to hold such joy and promise and kick-assedness and taking-on-the-world and making-my-dreams-come-true and shiny happy rainbow coloured puppies and ponies has instead been one of despair and desolation and getting my ass kicked into the deep, dark ground.

Listening to everyone giving thanks for their shiny happy rainbows, reading Twitter and FaceBook posts about their thankfulness for smiling puppies and ponies and people who stick by them no matter what and love them the way they deserve... I knew I was supposed to come up with something... Dear lord, I spent four months blogging about "The Week in Awesome" towards the beginning of this anno horribilus, surely I could come up with SOMETHING other than "I'm thankful I haven't stabbed anyone in the eye with a fork, so have yet to be incarcerated as a dangerous offender."

(Although, considering the year it's been, I should probably be quite proud about that awesome fact...)

And I thus was spending the first half of Thanksgiving weekend fully entrenched in "waah, waaah, waaaahhhh!" mode.

But then I came across this quote in a friend's FB post:

It is relatively easy to feel grateful when good things are happening, and life is going the way we want it to. A much greater challenge is to be grateful when things are not going so well, and are not going the way we think they should...

The religious traditions encourage us to do more than react with passivity and resignation to loss and crisis; they advise us to change our perspective, so that our suffering is transformed into an opportunity for growth. Not only does the experience of tragedy give us an exceptional opportunity for growth, but some sort of suffering is also necessary for a person to achieve maximal psychological growth.

In his study of self-actualizers, the paragons of mental wellness, the famed humanistic psychologist Abraham Maslow noted that "the most important learning lessons... were tragedies, deaths, and trauma... which forced change in the life-outlook of the person and consequently in everything that he did."

[Robert Emmons, from "Thanks!" ]

...and was floored, humbled and challenged.

Opportunities for growth abound right now. Heck, by the time I deal with them all, I'll be eight feet tall with a brain the size of Texas! ;)

But yes, this conglomeration of tragedies and traumas forced me to (finally) take my dear friend Ali's advice (did I mention my awesome girlfriends?) and "enrol" myself at the Trauma Centre, to deal with the next stage (how many friggin' stages are there, fer cryin' out loud?!?!?) of my recovery from that childhood rife with opportunities for growth. And just a couple of months in, I can feel myself drop-kicked off the old plateau and zooming to new heights.

To a place where I know that, no matter who I am or what I do, I don't deserve to be treated as anything less than human. That speaking my truth is not punishable by violence (physical or emotional). That I have every right to expect honesty, loyalty and integrity from the people who demand it of me. And that those who claim to love me had better put their actions and behaviours behind their words, and not just at those moments when they want me to do something for them.

Yes, I realize this all seems like kind of a no-brainer to most people, but... you might need to read some previous blog posts to get a wee hint at how very foreign these concepts are to someone who was groomed from an early age to be paedophile-fodder / caregiver / rescuer / doormat / outlet-for-your-rage, sire / secret-keeper. (Plus, holy crap... I must say that I'm discovering more and more layers of that grooming via my ongoing therapeutic work -- there's probably a LOT of people right now praying the secret-keeper brainwashing is gonna stick, because the forget-everything-or-at-least-believe-you're-only-remembering-because-you're-the-crazy-one brainwashing is rapidly being chiselled away as I come to fully realize the depth and breadth of my abuse...)

As it turns out, while I obviously haven't allowed any more physical or sexual abuse back in my life, I had sunk back into the caregiver / rescuer / doormat / secret-keeper mode quite easily, while also harbouring dysfunctional thoughts such as "I don't deserve", "I am less than" and "I am unworthy", and training others to use, abuse and ignore me, because that was surely my place in the world.

Egads. The things we do to ourselves...

And, using that whole frog-in-a-gradually-brought-to-a-boil-pot-of-water analogy, I guess it really did take the "perfect storm" of betrayals and abandonments before I could snap out of complacency and acceptance-of-shitty-treatment and say "Hey, cut that out! I deserve better!" To do a total re-wire (work in progress, of course...) and reprogramming of what I would and would not accept and expect in my life. To try to salvage and rebuild the broken relationships with those who are willing to join in the new programming and also do the work this process requires. To stop tap-dancing my ass off to somehow single-handedly build a healthy relationship with someone whose only goal is to tear me down and who wouldn't know "healthy" if it bit them in the ass. To put the reluctant ones on hold until I can get a better handle on things. To make my own needs and safety on equal footing with, or even (gasp!) more important than other's desires. To treat myself as sacred. (Yes, I threw up in my mouth a little just typing that one -- I did warn you, it's a work-in-progress...)

To treat myself as sacred.

Not the one who gets the leftover crumbs, if there are any, after everyone else's needs have been attended to. Not the one who only gets to speak up if there's zero chance of anyone being even slightly bothered by what I have to say. Not the one who quietly waits in the corner for someone to recognize that she's a human being as well, and is worthy, as much as, and deserving.

No-one else will recognize these basic truths if I don't recognize them for myself. No-one else will treat me as human if I'm telling them not to worry about treating me with basic common decency.

If I want people to treat me as human, I have to treat myself as sacred. And I have to keep reminding myself of this until it stops making me want to vomit, and I'm nine feet tall with a brain the size of Australia. (Still 5'6", but... work-in-progress, didn't I mention?)

And I wouldn't have remembered to do this, were it not for this year turning out so very different than originally planned.

So, here I am: grateful for all the terrible things that were done to me this year. Not grateful in a way that means I will accept this kind of treatment from anyone ever again -- yes, I'm looking at you, assholes-in-waiting, so just put it out of your mind -- but grateful for the reminder that, as a card-carrying human being, I do not deserve to be mistreated, and I am well within my rights to refuse to accept violence of any sort (without that being an invitation for more violence!).

I am grateful for the opportunity to re-draw and fortify my boundaries.

I am grateful for the opportunity to rebuild my life on more solid foundations.

I am grateful that there are people willing to rebuild with me, and some awesome girlfriends cheering me on.

I am grateful for the reminder to not be less than, to reclaim my voice, to be the best me I can be, and to know that whoever and whatever I am at any given moment is the best me I can be under the current circumstances.

Yessirree, I am grateful to the gate-keepers, the liars, the abandoners, the cheats, the betrayers, the backstabbers, the assholes and the abusers. They have shown me who they are, and reminded me of who I am. I am not who they want me to be. They do not define me, but I can take these circumstances and use them to better define myself. Be who I want to be.

I am grateful to those who are willing to learn along with me that I do deserve better, and are willing to make the effort to offer up the treatment I deserve.

I am grateful for the opportunity to learn and grow, and reshape my life into something better.

I am and forever shall be grateful to the Trauma Centre for the incredible work they're doing -- for me and for everyone who needs their services. Grateful to Ali for pointing me there.

I am grateful to the girlfriends, most especially Ali and Lisa, who make me laugh, and cry, and mix some mighty tasty martinis, and who have been there for me even when I've pretended I don't need anyone there for me.

I am grateful that the liver is a forgiving organ. Because... see previous point about my girlfriends' awesome drink-mixing abilities.

I am grateful for my honorary and chosen family. I can't change my blood, genes, nor history, but I can decide who to keep close to my heart, who to trust, who to share my life with. I have a beautiful pool of people who fit the bill. :)

I am, indeed, grateful that I have not stabbed anyone in the eye with a fork this year, and therefore have yet to be incarcerated as a dangerous offender.

I am grateful that those projects and dreams that had to be put on hold for a while will still be possible when I'm ready to pursue them again.

I am grateful that I have the resources available to take this next step in my healing and recovery.

I am grateful that, this time next year, I'm going to be eleven feet tall, with a brain the size of the planet.]]>
Tue, 15 Oct 2013 19:08:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/gratitude-yes-really--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/gratitude-yes-really--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterHappy Anniversary, yes, really
(Sorry for the absence. The weekly "awesome" just hasn't been in the cards, recently. I will be back, things will be awesome again. Just have needed a lot of time to deal with a lot of things recently -- the below just being the tip of the iceberg. Thanks for giving me my much-needed space, dear readers.)

As those of you who follow The Brights' blog already know, Don and I are enjoying a fabulous anniversary week at Sir Sam's Inn. And today is our third anniversary. And we love each other.

Which, if you'd asked us three years ago, would have been a given. Heck, if you'd asked us even three seasons ago, it would have been a no-brainer. Three months ago? We would have said "Hah! Not bloody well gonna happen." But it did. We made it. We're here.

Life does throw us some mighty big challenges sometimes...

Or, in our case, Life says "Hey, you know what? I just found this ginormous pile of shit you've been avoiding dealing with for several decades, but I'm trying to clear out some space, so here you go, DO SOMETHING with it." And then you say "Hell no, there's a reason why I didn't want to deal with all that, I don't want it!" So then you start flinging it at your wife, who then says "Hell no, that's yours not mine, deal with your own shit!" and flings it right back at you. And then after you've both been hit squarely in the eye with a lob or two, you both look around and realize that, no matter whose shit it was to begin with, you both have a LOT of cleaning up to do.

I don't write this (solely) to see what the cursing police at Blogger will do with that whole description. Nor simply as a Public Service Reminder to deal with your shit sometime BEFORE it ends up all over you, your home, and everyone you love (although that would be a REALLY AWESOME Public Service Announcement, just sayin'...)

I am writing this to say that you never know what Life (or love) is going to fling at you next, no matter how good things seem to be going. But that no matter what Life (or love) does fling at you, you can survive it. And if you (and whoever else is in the shit-party with you) are willing to put in the work, you can not only survive it, but make it better -- probably better than it was even before you knew it was awful. Yes, really. Better. For Realsies.

No matter how dark (or shitty) things look, it can and will get better.

(Now, as someone for whom it has already not gotten better twice, I feel the need to make a caveat -- it can and will get better if BOTH PARTIES are willing to put in the work. Which we both are. Which is why we're here.)

Four months ago (to the day, now that I think about it), I thought I'd lost everything and everyone that mattered most to me (other than Ali, because she's just friggin' invincible). Three months ago, I didn't see any way through. Three months ago, nobody could have ever convinced me that we'd be spending our anniversary side by side, holding hands, loving each other and looking forward to the future. (As in our future TOGETHER, not our future on opposite sides of the planet, armed with army-grade shit-flingers.)

There's still some cleaning up to do, we're still working hard. There are many things to sort through, many wounds, old and new, that still need a whole lot of healing. Still some lingering stink. But we're working together. Life is good. We're laughing and having fun and loving each other and loving life and looking forward to many more poop-free anniversaries to come.

Life apparently still had a lesson left for me: you CAN do this. When the going gets tough, the tough get staying. :)

So happy anniversary to the man worth staying for. And to the man who was willing to start working through that old, dark and stinky muck because he thought staying with me was worth it.

First anniversary is paper, third anniversary is, apparently, Lysol...

Ah well, nobody ever promised a life full of rainbows and lollypops. That's why the traditional wedding vows are "through better or worse". (Although I'm thinking they might want to rephrase it as "through worse or better", just to keep a light going at the end of the tunnel... just sayin'.) But it is better. Much better. It will be even better.

Happy Anniversary to the Love of My Life. Thank you for being here. Thanks for, once again, proving "them" wrong. I adore you.

(And thanks to our close friends, who have stuck by our side, despite the stink -- we love you all! But you can't join us this week, no matter how much you beg. Because... eeew.)]]>
Wed, 17 Jul 2013 14:09:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/happy-anniversary-yes-really--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/happy-anniversary-yes-really--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe Week in Awesome

First up, a fabulous video by Project Unspoken -- which seems to me to be associated with the Emory University Office of Health Promotion. And what a great campaign they've got going!

And, finally, a great conference in Toronto, if you're in the area -- I'm trying my bestest to attend, and one of the speakers is a new friend of mine, Deb Maybury. She's also about to release a new book, which includes a song of mine -- I'll share the details of her book launch as soon as I have them.

That's it for now -- have an awesome week, everyone!]]>
Sun, 17 Mar 2013 20:59:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-week-in-awesome--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-week-in-awesome--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe on-time week in Awesome!We had the second Steering Committee meeting of the Katie Project! Yes, it's gone back to being called the Katie Project, rather than foundation -- yes, the website will reflect that soon. We got our official mission statement together, created an official mission statement, and are on our way to strategic planning in meeting #3. I love my committee, and I'm so very excited to finally be making this dream come true!!!

My hubby has finally started his trip home after four long weeks of being out west. Yes, I did the happy dance to have the house to myself, but I'll be doing an even better happy dance when he finally gets back. I'm complicated that way. :)

Speaking of which, I had a fun night with my friend Ali, and we took our Attachment Styles quiz -- I am, apparently, "fearful". Yeah, it wasn't a big surprise. Although the big surprise was that I was *NOT* all the way in the far right bottom quadrant, I've actually worked my way closer to centre. So things are looking up. And Don can take of his helmet... most of the time. ;)

And now, things that have nothing to do with me.

My friend Paul has started a wonderful thread on FaceBook about childhood bullying. There were a couple of judgemental twits who told him he should "just get over it" -- but you know how well I react to that kind of statement... The years before five last the rest of their lives... and the years before adult... still suck, regardless of the rhyme. Just sayin'. I'm not sure if he's made the posts public, but you'll find out by visiting https://www.facebook.com/paul.bickell.1

And Shane Koyzcan has done an Incredibly Beautiful TED talk on that very subject. Invest in a box of tissues and some Wonder Woman (or SuperMan) paraphernalia before watching.

I've been in love with this man's art and passion for several years, but this talk pretty much does me in. :)

Have an awesome week, everyone!]]>
Sun, 10 Mar 2013 23:55:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-on-time-week-in-awesome--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-on-time-week-in-awesome--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterAwesome 'R' UsThis week's Awesome is small but mighty. And yes, it's not external awesomeness but something I was involved in but am kind of proud of. :)

It's my sister's 40th birthday this week, and her hubby threw her a surprise karaoke party on Saturday to celebrate. Don's in BC right now and I... well I just couldn't handle facing the GateKeeper on my own, nor did I wish upon my sister the inevitable scene if said GateKeeper saw my face there, so I stayed home with a glass (or three) of wine and thought of her (my sister, not GK) fondly.

In lieu of our presence, Don and I enlisted the help of our friend Tyler Knight to create a video to send for the party. We kind of broke the karaoke rules and made up our own lyrics, but we're sure you'll agree they were appropriate for the occasion!

Please note that when we added the birthday greeting, our software messed up the resolution and put a few glitches into the recording, so if you'd prefer to see the "clean" original video (a much better example of Tyler's magic), he's got a copy up on his YouTube site here: Sad But True Babe.

But the birthday greeting adds just that extra little bit o' cheese, so here is the lower-quality but higher(?)-comedy version that my sis got to see at the party:

Have an awesome week, everyone -- I'll hopefully be less of a crankypants next week!]]>
Tue, 05 Mar 2013 20:41:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/awesome-r-us--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/awesome-r-us--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterAwesomeness Revisited (We are beautiful, beautiful creatures...)
on time this week, but Lisa's hubby Paul got the One Billion Rising photos and video to me just in time to be included in -- nay, the focal point of -- this week's report. I am re-energized by watching the community rally, and so proud to have been a part of this event, pathetic dancing skills aside...

And here is the official recap of my V-Day One Billion Rising experience!:

As previously noted, I had cornered my friend Lisa at girls' night after several glasses of wine and she'd agreed to join me in dancing, so I wouldn't chicken out. She recruited her hubby Paul to chauffeur us and take photos and video, so that

we wouldn't chicken out

there would be evidence of us not chickening out

we could drink enough wine so as to not chicken out

all of the above

And so, we met at their house mid-afternoon, to do some more practising and all-important wine lubricating.

Preparing to Dance

Maggie, the Chocolate Lab, tried to rescue us a few times as we practised, or maybe she was joining in -- she wasn't much worse than we were, really. And then it was time to head down to Five Points!

Maggie wishes us luck

As we were pulling in, there were already a few people gathering -- by the time we'd found a parking spot and walked back to the park, it was really teeming!

Here we go!

The people are starting to gather

The original plan was to look nonchalant and then spontaneously break into dance (yes, there just happened to be a big-ass sound system in the middle of the park in February...). But there were so many people gathered, it was impossible to pretend nothing was happening. One report I saw said there were 200-250, another said over 500 -- I'm guessing the 500 probably included spectators. Arif, a city counsellor who was dancing with us, said we'd have to shut down the whole intersection next year, since we won't be able to fit in the park if anyone else shows up!

Arif and Lisa finally meet in person

Photographing the photographers! (Tina and Paul)

Paul keeps his distance (still not sure whether to admit knowing us)

There were women, men, boys and girls dancing, folks in wheelchairs or with walkers, people who actually know how to dance and people who just bopped up and down a little. Drivers honked, the media took photos and interviews, it. was. happening!

Trying to look nonchalant, like nothing is happening

Yup, nothing happening here!

Lisa, trying to forgive me

There were some of the folks from the Women & Children's Shelter of Barrie taking part, as well as some of the gals from last year's Vagina Monologues (which we're repeating this April 23 & 24 -- stay tuned!). The pianist from the Amity Trio and I bumped into each other and were equally surprised to see the other.

Risers to the right

Risers to the left

Risers in front

The police were there to keep everyone safe, just in case, but they weren't needed -- everyone was happy and supportive, and we had nothing but positive feedback from everyone.

Happy, laughing risers

Slighty dazed and what-am-I-about-to-do risers

A few words from our fearless leader, Shannon the Dynamo, and we were off! (As in, to the races... not like bad milk...)

Shannon (the organizer) speaks with the media

We get our final instructions

Are we ready?

I think we're starting soon

Too late to turn back now

And Dance!!!

Alrighty, here is the video evidence of me... DANCING IN PUBLIC!!!

This was Lisa's son's camera which Paul had never used before, so he didn't realize that taking some stills would disrupt the video and there are a few glitches. Also, he was standing right next to the speaker that stopped working for much of the dance, so you'll hear quite a dip in the sound mid-way (it comes back!). Paul apologizes profusely.

I think I only said the f-word once (not audible on the video), and only knocked one person in the shins. A rather successful dance, I'd say!!!

We are beautiful, beautiful creatures!

Afterwards, Shannon gave a thank-you and speech, and then Andrea surprised her with a thank you from all of us!

Shannon's final speech

Andrea thanks Shannon for all her hard work

And there was much smiling and cheering and joyfulness had by all.

For One Billion Rising

Holy crap, we did it!

No caption, I just love this photo!

Mission accomplished, we bundled back into the car to return to Maggie, who danced an encore for us as we came in the door.

Lisa had chilled a bottle of champagne, which we enjoyed with grilled cheese sandwiches -- and ketchup, because she doesn't want me to neglect my vegetables! :)

Celebratory champagne and grilled cheese!

The perfect way to celebrate Valentine's Day when your hubby is on the other side of the country -- good friends, stepping (dancing) outside the box, daring, dog, comfort food, bubbly. Awesome!

Sister won't you help me, sister won't you riseSister won't you help me, sister won't you rise

This is my body, my body's holyNo more excuses, no more abusesWe are mothers, we are teachersWe are beautiful, beautiful creatures

In the meantime, I don't want you to feel cheated, though. So here's an awesome photo courtesy of War Resisters International -- from Mozambique, an AK-47 turned into a saxophone! (Sent via friend B, regular source of awesomeness.)

And, as if Matt Damon wasn't awesome enough just as an actor, producer, director, etc., he's inviting us all to "Strike With Me" to celebrate International Water Day, taking a stand on the water crisis. The video of his "press release" is just hilarious. Intelligent, witty, talented, passionate, and... not too hard on the eyes, just sayin'...

OK, that's it until I can get my own intelligent, witty, talented, passionate, and... not too hard on the eyes V-Day report put together.

Happy Monday - have an awesome week!

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Mon, 18 Feb 2013 15:58:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/awesomeness-postponed--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/awesomeness-postponed--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterDance like nobody is watchingI have spent the day rehearsing the dance steps for Thursday's "One Billion Rising" flashmob at Barrie's Five Points (between 5:00 & 5:30 -- please join us if you can!). This is what the dance is supposed to look like:

I'm afraid that when my husband caught me rehearsing last week, he thought I was having a seizure or something, and ran up the stairs to rescue me. I am hoping someone warns the paramedics that I'm not dying, just dancing -- and sends them to help those people dying of laughter.

What I lack in talent, I shall make up for in enthusiasm!

At girls' night on Saturday, I recruited my friend Lisa to join me in dancing -- fortunately, she was already quite drunk by that point in the evening! ;-) Our friend Betty, who actually DOES know how to dance, tried to give us a lesson, and was very helpful, though you probably won't be able to tell (trust me, you should have seen the "before" pictures!).

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...

Participants were invited to share a video of "Why I'm Rising". I took a big breath and contributed the following:

My "moves" have improved, slightly, from that brief demonstration. Hopefully I'll be able to get some photos and/or videos at the event that make it look like I've actually spent the day practising.

Because I don't dance. Let alone in public. I believe the last time I did so was as a nine-year-old, playing a Russian Rose in a ballet recital. My one and only ballet recital. There's a reason for that.

But a funny thing started to happen today, as I spent the day practising my "step right, and party, step left, and party, now pivot, pivot, and party, party" and "step-ball-change, step-ball-change, swag, swag" (for the record, it took me until about 8pm to realize it wasn't break-ball-change, break-ball-change, which would have fit the step, honestly... at least the way I was doing it!). No, I'm not just talking about how my 40-something knees started to give up with all the jumping around (although that happened too!). I actually started to... you know... move my body with the music. You might almost call it... er... dancing?

And I realized... not only do I not dance, I don't really walk. At least, not in a fluid, happy-with-my-body kind of way. I tend to walk so nobody will notice me. I tend to walk as if my entire lower body was involved in a Kegel hold. You know, if those muscles stretched all the way through my gluteus maximus and into my lower back.

Swaying hips? Nope, not me. Ass is firmly clenched, so as to eliminate any chance of a sway as my legs do the least they have to do to get me from here to there. Dancing, should it happen, is in tiny little arm movements (as witnessed above), feet barely leaving the floor, knees maybe bending a tiny bit... maybe.

But as I got more comfortable with remembering the steps (other than the bridge, which I totally fail at every time!), and watched the dance students in the instructional video, and absorb the rhythms... my hips... started... SWAYING! They swayed to the left, they swayed to the right, they did some weird gyrating thing I didn't think they were capable of... My hips were dancing! Not only that, but my feet left the floor. My arms wound around, my spine undulated... MY WHOLE BODY WAS DANCING!!!

For the first time in my 40-something years, I was actually comfortable in my body. Comfortable letting it do its thing without worrying about whether someone would think I was an idiot or, more scarily for me, that I was trying to show off or be seductive or something (why I ever thought MY dancing might be seen as seductive, I'll never know... I may be dancing now, but let's be realistic!).

I have no idea if I'll be able to recreate this phenomenon when someone actually IS watching, but... I'll give it my best shot. Because:

This is my body, my body's holyNo more excuses, no more abusesWe are mothers, we are teachersWe are beautiful, beautiful creatures

I have no idea if I'll be able to get through the dance without laughing, and I KNOW I won't be able to hear that last line without bawling -- it has happened EVERY TIME today, and the song has been on CONSTANT rotation since 9am (you'd think I'd be used to it by now?!?).

My word for the year was "Daring". I think I should get bonus points for February. :)

Even without the points, though, I know I'm helping. Not through my fabulous dance moves (!), but through standing in solidarity and protest. And in the hope and faith that we can change the world -- one tiny heart (or vagina) at a time.

Until tomorrow, my friends -- Dance, Rise.

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Thu, 14 Feb 2013 01:59:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/dance-like-nobody-is-watching--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/dance-like-nobody-is-watching--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterBreaking the record for late Awesomeness
Katie Foundation (I could just wrap up the Week in Awesome on that alone...), followed by a quick nap, followed by some top-secret creative activities which shall be revealed some time next month, followed by... Monday.

But here I am, basking in the glow of the Awesome first meeting, realizing that the world needs a bit of awesome.

Most of the awesome comes, once again, from friend B -- an endless supply of this stuff! :) The original link she'd sent expired, but I searched it out and found another version on YouTube. The creativity of the Pilobolus dance troupe is just brilliant and... yes, Awesome:

And this beautiful documentary film, "Scared is Scared", in which filmmaker Bianca Giaever re-creates the story by six-year-old Asa Baker-Rouse, all about being scared and how to overcome it. May we all have such wisdom:

Have a truly awesome week, everyone -- and happy day of love, or day of binge-eating, whichever side you're on. ;)]]>
Tue, 12 Feb 2013 21:08:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/breaking-the-record-for-late-awesomeness--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/breaking-the-record-for-late-awesomeness--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterOn-time Awesomeness!The week has been busy, leading up to my hubby Don Bray's concert last night at the Double Door -- which was tons of fun.

So... most of the awesomeness comes from others this week!

First off, my friend Ali's CompassionFile -- I've already shared it with many, because it deals with that nasty little topic of: Boundaries. Boundaries are awesome. If you have them. Baby steps... Her post includes a great exercise for working through yours -- an exercise which I promise to get to soon. :) Where Is My Bottom Line?

Next, a somewhat disturbing but powerful video sent to me by friend B, who has become a great source of all things awesome. Residential Redemption:

Next up, also from friend B, some words of wisdom from a young boy about learning to ride a bike -- and pretty much everything else in life, I think. It'll make you feel happy of yourself, I guarantee!

And finally, a beautiful story from the Toronto Star, in reference to this truly awesome photo:

That's all folks -- have an awesome first week of February!

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Sun, 03 Feb 2013 22:11:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/on-time-awesomeness--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/on-time-awesomeness--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterLast Week in AwesomeIf I *were* to make an excuse, mind you, it would be that I had an awesome girls' night with my friend Ali -- while escaping Don's boys' night at our house. This particular episode of boys' night included ouzo, so it is doubly awesome that I got to escape -- if it had been single malt, I might have stuck around.

Ali is also one of the "Inaugural" Board Members of the new foundation, so we were able to get lots of work done, too. Yessireee, lots of awesome work. Pages and pages of work. OK... maybe not pages and pages, but some really good discussions, tucked in amongst the snacks, martinis, way-too-much-dinner, wine, midnight snacks, more wine, way-too-much-brunch-the-next-day. And her dad (at brunch, NOT at girls' night!) helped give an idea of some of the required legal stuff (and cost estimates), too. And he's got some refurbished minute books he can donate to the cause!

When I got home, there was a message that my lovely niece had called and wanted me to call back. She'd gone to her VERY FIRST symphony concert (at 7 years old) and declared it to be: yes, AWESOME!!! Can you tell she's my niece? She'd even managed to stay awake for the second set. She also announced that she'd been allowed to stay up until 10:30 for a party on Saturday, and was very proud of herself -- I sense musicians' hours in the making here. ;) When I asked her if she'd been cranky over the weekend, she said yes, but only a little bit -- self-awareness in a 7-year-old? Awesome. :) (Mind you, I didn't double-check with her mother what "only a little bit" meant in the adult world, so I may have just been snowed by a 7-year old...)

I got my car back from the body shop on Friday. It turns out, while they were replacing the panel that dimtwit backed in to (in to which the dimtwit backed), they discovered she'd actually hit the car with enough force to also crack the bottom left corner of the windshield! So... new windshield for me. But the body shop and the insurance company both agreed that this was 100% the fault of said dimtwit, so I didn't have to pay the deductible or anything. Just drive my newly-shiny car home. The newly-shiny car with seat warmers. Oh, in a week of minus-27, how I missed thee, oh seat warmers! (Seat warmers are... oh, you know...)

The Big Awesome of the week, however, is One Billion Rising -- an international movement created by Eve Ensler (writer of The Vagina Monologues), inviting women to Strike, Dance and Rise on V-Day, February 14.

As the website says:

One in Three Women on the Planet will be Raped or Beaten in her Lifetime.

One Billion Women Violated is an Atrocity.

One Billion Women Dancing is a Revolution.

Join V-Day on February 14, 2013

Strike, Dance, Rise

in your community and

Demand an END to Violence

One of my friends from last year's Vagina Monologues, Shannon Murree, has created a Barrie and Simcoe Region dance flashmob event -- location still to be decided. If you'd like to take part, please visit the FaceBook group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/one.billion.barrie/

Yes, I will be dancing. Pick yourselves up off the floor. As nobody has ever seen me dance (unless you knew me in grade 7 and were one of the lucky few to survive it without dying laughing), just witnessing such a monumental event should be enough to make you want to take part!

Just so you have an idea of what it's SUPPOSED to look like here's the official video, with anthem by Tena Clark and choreography by the magnificently awesome Debbie Allen:

If you're in the Simcoe region, please join us! If you're anywhere else and want to get involved, there's a list of planned events -- growing every day -- at the One Billion Rising website (http://onebillionrising.org), as well as a toolkit to help get an event started in your own area.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go practise my moves.

Have an awesome week, everyone!]]>
Mon, 28 Jan 2013 18:27:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/last-week-in-awesome--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/last-week-in-awesome--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe awesomely late Week in AwesomeNot only that, but along with the three wonderful humans, I got to spend the weekend with a Black Lab named Raven -- and you guys know I'm a total sucker for Black Labs. Raven almost made me forget Sunday's hangover, because... yes, we did consume an awesome amount of wine on Saturday night, which made for a not-so-awesome feeling the next day. Point taken.

But my sorta-not-quite-a-brother-in-law-but-he-can-be-my-brother-any-day Todd has sent me home with a USB stick of templates and forms and examples and questions to ponder and all the sorts of things that had my head reeling and wondering where on earth I would ever start. Todd knows where to start. Because Todd is... say it with me now, people -- AWESOME!!!

And speaking of awesome men, take a look at this photo:

These are protesters in India, reacting to comments that wearing skirts is the cause of rape. They're standing in solidarity with their mothers, sisters and daughters, and I absolutely love them.

And, in case Raven wasn't animal enough for you, here is an awesomely adorable video with two of my other favourite animals. You might notice that the title is "Awesome communication!" -- it was simply meant to be.

Happy Monday, folks -- have a great week!]]>
Mon, 21 Jan 2013 21:07:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-awesomely-late-week-in-awesome--2
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-awesomely-late-week-in-awesome--2Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe week(end) in AwesomeYou see, this weekend was our annual DIY Music Retreat -- a weekend of musical mayhem for about 35 folks. This was the 7th year, and often it's the only time in the year when some of us manage to see each other, although there were some newcomers this year as well. Something to look forward to in the darker days of winter, a recharging of batteries. Lots of jamming, a bit of learning, great food and probably a wee bit too much alcohol. ;-)

I wasn't sure how I'd fare, given my last two months of hermitage, but -- save for one bizarre triggering -- I'm happy to report I did quite well! (I was, somehow, triggered by the shape of one person's nose. Still trying to figure WTF that was about, and hoping he didn't notice my reaction and think it had anything to do with him... So... if you're reading this and noticed my little panic attack when I looked at your face, please don't take it personally, I'm just a little wacked-out right now!)

As I believe I wrote last year, the "young'uns" had again improved in leaps and bounds, which was such a joy to see (and hear!). And I got my annual dose of love from Mary H., who seems to always know exactly what to say to make me feel so special I could cry.

But the BEST news from the weekend was that at the concert Saturday night (everyone performs one song, often with others joining in), Mary headed on stage making excuses why she might not do a good job -- the most important one being THE NEW RING ON HER FINGER! Apparently, boyfriend Marcus had proposed earlier in the day, while they were out for a walk. And, let me tell you, if there's anyone deserving of love in this world, it's Mary -- she gives out so much love and joy to everyone around her, I'm absolutely thrilled she's getting some back (by someone that everyone who met him this weekend has declared to be Mary-worthy).

Because love is Awesome and Mary is Awesome and sometimes Karma can be really and truly Awesome!!! (And Marcus has definitely earned a spot in the Awesome category as well.)

Returning home last night, and checking my mail and FaceBook and stuff, I learned that Mary isn't the only one who makes me feel so special I could cry. Angie has posted the following:

So, as I reminisce the weekend at DIY, I am sitting at my dining room table listening to Dark Waters by Alyssa Wright. My 8 year old very perceptive, musically gifted young daughter, Aja, says to me, "Mom, does Alyssa KNOW that she's CRAZY TALENTED?" How's that for confirmation, Lyss?

Bring on the waterworks... People saying nice things about me out of the blue is... oh... can I say it?... (gulp) Awesome.

On the Katie Foundation front, I'm meeting with my sorta-but-not-exactly-a-brother-in-law-in-law this coming weekend to figure out how to get this puppy registered and given charitable status. There's a full board now in place (although additions are welcome, don't want to burn anyone out!), and we're all Really. Freaking. Excited!!! Making your dreams come true is: AWESOME!!!

But it's not all about me! (Well, it's my blog, so it kind of is, but...)

Friend B. sent me this link earlier in the week: http://imaginepeace.com/archives/19222. Six hundred guitarists gathered in Darjeeling to play John Lennon's "Imagine" to pay tribute to the Delhi rape victim, and spread "hope, peace and promise" in a country still coming to terms with the violence.

Alrighty, it's now Monday afternoon and I have to actually get some work done in between students (when did my Mondays become such crazy days?), so that's all the awesome you get in this round.

Have a great week, everyone!Alyssa]]>
Mon, 14 Jan 2013 15:57:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-week-end-in-awesome--2
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-week-end-in-awesome--2Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterLast Week in AwesomeWith a weekend off, we'd headed SW to a housewarming party held by a couple of friends of ours (Suzie and James), who recently purchased an old church just down the road from another friend (Joe). Now, you all know how much of a hermit I've been the last couple of months, and I've been avoiding parties like the plague. Neither Don nor I are particularly good with parties where we don't know a lot of people. So... when we heard that Joe was sick as a dog (leaving the party hosts as the only two people we'd know there), Lyssy might have had a wee bit of a panic attack... But, we'd said we'd go, we wanted to support our friends, and we wanted to see this beautiful space they'd been lusting after for over a year -- so, I pulled myself together, and we headed down the highway with our jammies and pillows in tow.

And we're so glad we did! Oh sure, we didn't know anyone when we arrived, but Suzie's and James's friends are all so wonderful (to be expected, as they're wonderful people themselves), we felt right at home. And we'd made a lot of new friends by the time we'd left -- including one beautiful canine friend who fell totally in love with Don (can't blame her, really!), and visited our bed several times overnight to give him kisses (when she wasn't trying to crawl into bed with James).

So... I shall pat myself on the back and say that a major introvert taking herself to a party where she knows no-one is pretty darned awesome, especially following two months where going to the grocery store caused panic attacks. Yay me!

But on a more general level, pushing yourself outside your comfort level is awesome. I do know this, I have lived it many times, but... guess the universe decided I really needed a reminder to take some chances and leave my home base more often. Fling myself on the mercy of happenstance. Be rewarded for my bravery. Yes, I know people have been telling me how brave I am for years, but I tend to keep being brave in the same areas -- this was a whole different type of brave, and the fabulous weekend and new friends it brought me were... say it with me now: Awesome.

*********************************

And it's a new year! Don and I both did a 2012 wrap-up, and planned ahead for 2013, including picking each of our "official" words for the year. Colour me crazy, but I chose the word: Daring.

Daring. Guess I started the year right, then, daring to go to that party.

But it's not just about going to parties. It's daring to stick my neck out, to speak up, to take initiative, to boldly go where no Lyssy has gone before. Daring to get the Katie Foundation established -- and daring to ask for help (oy, asking for help!) in getting it started. Yes, daring to ask for what I want and need -- who'd-a-thunk? Daring to get this book written, and then daring to show it to people. Daring to move to a new home that will better sustain our music careers -- daring to no longer have the excuse of location to fall back on. Daring to say no (watch out world, I could get used to this!). Daring to see what I want and just go for it.

Daring is Awesome. Try it, you'll like it!

***********************************

Our dryer and gas valve have both been fixed, for not too much money, which means we should no longer be going downstairs and discovering our appliances on fire. Which may seem like I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel for something good to say about this week, but it truly is awesome to have one less worry on my mind as I attempt to go to sleep at night. So lack of spontaneous combustion in our basement counts as Awesome. Yessirreee.

**********************************

But the best has been saved for last. Because earlier last week, we received a "thank you" card from our (awesome) friends Debbie & Mitchell for the gifts we'd brought for their baby shower last month. Inside this card was this incredible picture of their daughter, at six weeks.

Now, Debbie's not a professional photographer, and she just took this adorable pic on her cell phone -- which kind of makes you think she should go into baby photography, no?

The surprise and love and sheer joy on this little girl's face just makes me want to giggle and play with her all day. The photo is on our kitchen bulletin board, so I can't walk through the room without taking a peek and getting a big smile on my face.

Happy little babies -- and the parents who adore them -- are Truly Awesome!!!

************************************

Happy 2013, everyone -- may it be a truly wonderful year for each of you!

And that sub-title is my biggest "beef" with the book -- that the subtitle might alienate people from reading a book they could probably get a LOT of help from. Because, as the author explains inside the book, it's not necessarily about the possessor of the double-x-chromosome, or even necessarily a parent she is talking about in this book, it's the abuser's enabler. Because of the nature of Dr. Ricker's practice, she usually does see female survivors of paternal sexual abuse, but she has also seen other survivors, and these patterns have proven true of ALL enablers, not just mothers in father-daughter incest. These same patterns have proven true when the father is the abuser of a son, when the mother is the abuser of a son or daughter, if the abuser is a sibling or a distant relative or a family friend.

The subtitle also seems to ignore the non-enabling mothers -- the ones who figured out what was going on, and got their kids the hell out of the abusive system, charged the perpetrator, and got their kids the help they needed to recover. They are out there, I've witnessed some in action (and wished they'd been around when I was a kid). These kids who were believed and supported, of course, are not the ones who end up in years or decades of therapy -- so while it's understandable that Dr. Ricker can only base her studies on the cases she's seen, the subtitle does play a bit into the old "blame the mother" attitude that would probably prevent people from reading the book as well.

With those two gripes in mind, I'm going to switch terminology from Dr. Ricker's choice into my own: "The Enabler". Because, as she does explain early on in the book, these patterns are true of sexual abuse enablers across the board, regardless of their chromosomal make-up.

With that out of the way, may I once again exclaim: Oh, Thank You, Good-Timing-With-The-Book-Buying-Fairy!!!

Because this book helped me SO very much in the latest Gate-Keeper incident -- seeing the patterns for what they were, pretty much predicting events before they happened, allowing me to prepare for them, but also allowing me to centre myself, not take it on, not try to twist my brain around something that never would make sense, not try to do something to "deserve" better treatment, because the Gate-Keeper was (and is) incapable of treating me any better. Which is, honestly, a pretty sad place to be, but also quite a relief to finally be able to stop tap-dancing and realize it was never, ever about me.

I would advise that, if you're going to read this book, make sure you've got some sort of support network, because there is going to be a lot of anger, a lot of grief, and a lot of mourning, and you're going to need to talk through a lot of stuff with someone else. If you don't have a therapist or organized support group, you should probably consider visiting an online support group -- such as Pandora's Aquarium, which I found recently and has been a great place to talk with people who "get it". Yes, family (OUTSIDE family, don't even THINK of talking with members of the incestuous family about this, because as well-intentioned as they might be, they've been roped into the same damned patterns and may not be able to see things as clearly as an outsider) and friends can be a good support, but you need a professional specifically trained in childhood sexual abuse, and/or a support group of people who have been through the same things you have and understand what you're going through. I can't stress this enough. Take good care of yourself, this is going to be one hell of a ride!

The book is a combination of assessment checklists, illustrative case studies, and exercises for self-healing. The pangs of familiarity I felt with every single case study were truly heartbreaking, the assessment checklists eye-opening, and the self-care exercises... difficult, but helpful. I think I'll need to keep going back to them a few more times. Because it seems I am, once again, a ridiculous over-achiever when it comes to having symptoms of incest and CSA. There's a lot more work to do...

In the introduction, Katherine Trimm states what should be obvious but is often ignored: there is no correlation between socio-economic status or race for CSA -- it is Family Dysfunction that puts children at risk. Dysfunctional parenting enables the abuse perpetrator. A quote, if I may, because the intro sums it all up so perfectly, I don't wish to paraphrase:

It is usually less traumatic for a child to be victimized by a stranger than by a family member. Not only does the dysfunctional family increase the risk to the child, and increase the psychological damage, but the dysfunctional family also fails to provide the supportive parental relationship that helps the child to recover.

Thus, we have the triple whammy of the dysfunctional family. First, the dysfunctional family puts the child at risk. Second, parental involvement in the abuse aggravates the injury to the child. Third, the lack of functional parenting impedes recovery. This is why understanding the family dynamic in child sexual abuse is so key to protecting the child. And, when we fail to protect the child, understanding the dysfunctional family dynamic is necessary to understanding how to help the child heal.

(underlines are mine)

She goes on to refer to the Encyclopedia of Crime and Punishment, and a number of rather frightening statistics, and then another quick quote that has been underlined and asterix-ed and given several explanation points in my copy:

The family should be the first line of defense for the child. ...To stop the violence, "parents should educate their children about appropriate sexual behavior and how to feel comfortable saying no." ["Child Abuse." AHA Fact Sheet #4. Englewood, CO: American Humane Association, 1993.]

But this kind of responsible parenting is not likely to occur in a dysfunctional family. Further, as this book makes clear, in the enabling family, not only is the child not given protective messages. Instead, the child gets the message that he or she cannot say no, or even has the right to say no. It is obvious how this facilitates the perpetrator.

Later, in her own preface, Dr. Ricker outlines, quite clearly and simply, the Enabler's role in "the drama of abuse". The Enabler's role consists of four basic tasks:

Refusing to interfere with the incest

Discouraging the victim from hating the perpetrator by pretending that the family is perfect

Giving the victim the unspoken but clear message that (s)he is a temptress/temptor who is inherently bad

Making the victim need attention from the abuse by denying him or her the love, validation and soothing every child needs.

Did I mention the word "over-achiever" yet? ;-)

***********************

The book begins with a series of five daily "therapy sessions", for which she suggests you allot an hour each day -- honestly, I'd allot more, just so you have time to deal with the fallout. You might also want to do them in a room without sharp objects, and with the comfort food of your choice, and a blanket or teddy bear or whatever symbol gives you comfort. This will not be fun. BRING KLEENEX.

The first session seems benign enough -- a series of 26 questions regarding your Enabler, and how (s)he acted towards you as a child, to each of which you are supposed to write down Yes, Sort Of, Sometimes or No. (For those checking up on my overachiever status, I answered No to 4, Sometimes to 2, Sort Of to 2, and Yes to 18, unless you count the number of "Yes Yes Yes Yes Yes"-s I wrote down, in which case, my Yes count is 25.)

In the second session, she tells you what the answers to the previous day's questions mean. I won't spoil it for you, because if you're going to do this yourself, you need to answer honestly. But, without giving you the punchline, I can say that a total of 10 Yes, Sometimes and/or Sort Of answers means HOLY CRAP! (For those of you counting, even without my double, triple and quadruple Yes answers, I still totalled 24 -- over-freaking-achiever.) The rest of the session is dedicated to feeling all your feelings about those answers, and what they mean. Schedule this one for a day in which you don't need to face the public!

The following three sessions are used to process, grieve, sort through, and see the light at the end of the tunnel regarding these answers. Let me stress: Schedule these five sessions for a week in which you have no outside commitments. Make sure you have a support system in place!!!

*******************************

The book then moves into the most common / ever-present characteristics of the Enabler, with a chapter dedicated to each, including assessment checklists and case studies:

1. The Enabler's Matriarchal / Patriarchal Status

acting as a central figure around whom all family member's lives revolve (e.g., consulted on all decisions, often provides indispensable services such as babysitting or making loans or taking on trips)

main capital is approval

often a "spouse-worshipper", putting Perpetrator above children in attention and/or affection

no-one is ever willing to (openly) defy him or her

2. The Enabler's Control of the Survivor's Feelings

need to control others' feelings

not allowing the victim's own feelings about the abuse to count

deciding what the victim will feel -- especially about him or her, the Enabler

3. The Survivor's Loyalty to the Enabler

loyalty at any price -- loyalty to the Enabler more important than loyalty to self or reality

all children remain loyal -- even Victims/Survivors remain loyal until therapy makes it impossible

Enabler's feelings and well-being is more important than the Victim's/Survivor's -- anything else is met with declarations of selfishness and guilt

Enabler's blame-the-victim mentality is internalized in the Victim/Survivor

Victim/Survivor becomes addicted to the parent(s) -- can't give up hope that the Perpetrator and Enabler will one day tell her (s)he's fine and will give him or her the approval (s)he has craved since childhood

5. The Enabler's Emotional Alienation of the Survivor

engineer the situations and family dynamics by which the Victims are excluded

Victims/Survivors must behave in certain ways or they become emotional outcasts

insists the abuse never happened (!)

all but excommunicates the Victim/Survivor for speaking up, and lavishes gifts and attention on the other family members

the sacrificing of the Victim for the other children becomes a way of life for the whole family

6. The Enabler's Scapegoating of the Survivor

Victim/Survivor is blamed for the abuse

Victim/Survivor becomes the bad person for his/her accusations ruining the lives of the Perpetrator and/or Enabler

Victim/Survivor is held responsible for lack of protection, not Enabler or other (adult!) parental figures

7. The Resilience of the Enabler(this one I found really interesting, as I hadn't ever thought of this before...)

despite their child's sexual abuse at the hands of their partner, the Enablers are able to go on with their own lives, to pursue successful careers, and to have positive relationships with other children and new partners -- meanwhile, the Survivors find their lives at a standstill, emotionally devastated, in need of psychiatric medication, unable to develop or tolerate healthy relationships, or even in some extreme cases, to live independently

the abused child remains alive, still inside the Survivor's brain and body, able to watch the Survivor move on in life, while being unable to move along with him or her -- holding him or her back, or erupting as PTSD and/or DID when triggered

many of the Survivor's Enablers spend energy and time on their own success, while ignoring the needs of their Survivor children

8. The Enabler's Self-Image as a Good Parent

these Enablers believe themselves to be excellent parents, and have convinced others they are exemplary as well

Enabler is so dissociated from reality that (s)he cannot and DOES NOT see what is going on, often literally in front of their eyes -- a part of the Enabler's brain is just not going to compute anything that detracts from the official story

in order to keep the "Good Parent" myth and appearances going, the Enabler was willing to sacrifice one child

while most Enablers could be said to be good parents in some respects -- made sure the child's physical needs were met and the child survived to adulthood -- they failed to meet the most basic emotional needs of the child, and failed to protect the child from abuse, and no good parent would sacrifice a child to ongoing sexual abuse (one might say "no shit, Sherlock", but I've bolded this for my own sanity)

9. The Survivor's Relationship to the Perpetrator's new Wives/Girlfriends(Not applicable to me, but may be helpful to others)

the Perpetrator's new partners often know of the abuse, but fool themselves into thinking it's a clean slate now, and will not happen again

the new partner may not know, and the Survivor ends up becoming blamed for wrecking another marriage

the Survivor may hope the new partner will become the parent his or her birth-parent never was

there may be jealousy (in either direction) between the Survivor and new partner

After this run-down of the common patterns, there is a middle section that suggests these patterns can also occur in the parents of sexual assault victims, and greatly affect the Survivor's healing. I'm not entirely comfortable with this section, but I can see that rapists choose their victims based on subtle cues, and that many people have these characteristics trained into them ahead of time, as well as their self-preservation"radar" trained out of them. I'm just not positive that rapists are always so calculating, or that having perfect parents would necessarily ward off rapists. She doesn't put it that simply, of course, and it's definitely worth a read -- I'm just saying "I don't know, I'm not 100% convinced". I can certainly see how it would apply to acquaintance rape, not so sure about the scary-person-on-the-street type.

The second section gives a low-down on the various after-effects of sexual assault. After a lifetime of "normalcy", PTSD symptoms can sneak up on you decades later. Some of the most common symptoms are:

Panic attacks

Terror of being attacked again

Recurring nightmares

Flashbacks

Irritability (piss off, I have an excuse! ;-) )

Insomnia

There are many more symptoms, but these are the most obvious and prevalent. These can often be triggered by a news story, meeting a person you hadn't seen since the time of the abuse / assault, or even a song coming on the radio.

Dissociation and DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder) are also common symptoms -- ranging from feeling "not quite there" or viewing life from the outside at times, to total black-outs of time, to actual fragments of personality or full-blown separate identities that emerge when needed (or when they're decidedly not wanted).

Self-harm is a very common symptom -- this can be as simple as drinking too much, but burning and cutting are very prevalent, especially for incest survivors (an outward manifestation of inside pain, control of the injury).

These symptoms and more are dealt with in this final section, along with some coping strategies for the more "minor" ones -- and the regular insistence to find professional therapy for the more destructive ones.

*****************************************

In case you haven't noticed yet: I LOVE THIS BOOK!!! And I can't believe I'd already had the foresight to buy it earlier in the fall, and had promised myself to start reading it just before my Gate-Keeper's most recent attacks began.

This book helped ground me during a crisis. But more than that, it opened my eyes to the patterns that had insinuated themselves in my life, probably even before my birth.

It showed me, plainly, that I never stood a chance. That no amount of tap-dancing or good behaviour or perfection was ever going to have protected me, that I never would have been able to "earn" protection from the people who were supposed to be my care-givers. That I did deserve better. That the fact that I didn't get any better was not because of me, but because nobody was there to give it to me.

Which was a sad place to find myself, just before the holidays. At times a very angry place. A relieved place. Mourning the loss of the Family Myth. Mourning the loss of the parents and caregivers I wished I'd had, but never did. Mourning the loss of all those years when I'd been convinced I was the wrong-doer, and needed to make amends to my poor, suffering family. Mourning the loss of all those years when I thought I didn't deserve any better, and kept finding myself in relationship after relationship with the same god-damned patterns, neurotically hoping for a happier ending. Grieving all the damage caused to a little girl forced to grow up too soon. Grieving all the damage repeated over and over again to the adult trying to make sense of it all.

It doesn't make sense. It was never designed to make sense.

I felt like the sacrificial lamb because I WAS THE FRIGGING SACRIFICIAL LAMB. I felt like my thoughts and feelings and well-being didn't count, because making them count would have destroyed the whole system. Because, as far as the system was concerned, my thoughts and feelings and well-being DID NOT COUNT.

But they do count now. I count now. I know I never will count to the Gate-Keepers, and I'm not going to try any more. There are SO MANY PEOPLE in the world for whom my thoughts and feelings and well-being DO count, and I don't have to tap-dance a single step in order to deserve their love and compassion and caring.

Let the Gate-Keepers do what they will. I've got the secret key to their instruction manual now. And I've got the greatest antidote of all -- I know that my thoughts, feelings and well-being count. I trust my gut and my perceptions. On the days I don't, I can point to page 43 or 86 or 112 in the manual and say "oh yeah, that's you not me". I know they will never give me what I needed as a child. I will no longer expect them to see the error of their ways and give it to me now. I'll give it to myself, thank you very much. As will the people who actually DO love me, instead of just using that word to manipulate my consent.

This book was not easy. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. But there WAS a happy ending.

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I apologize for this "book report" taking so long -- I know I had promised it weeks and weeks ago. The day I finally felt ready was the day of the school shooting, which changed everything. It didn't feel right to write about the book until I was back in the right head-space. Happy to report I finally am. :-)

In the meantime, I've finished reading another gem, which I shall try to report on next week!]]>
Fri, 04 Jan 2013 17:41:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/book-report-the-ultimate-betrayal--2
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/book-report-the-ultimate-betrayal--2Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThis week in AwesomenessAs many of you know, this week has been a difficult one for me, so I'm kind of forcing myself into this right now. Of course, I forced myself out of the house yesterday, and was promptly "rewarded" by having my (new) car rammed into by an idiot in the parking lot, so... BE GENTLE! Check your mirrors and look where you're going.

Little Pollyanna me would like to mention it's awesome that said idiot only hit my car, and not a child (because if you can't see a big red station wagon with horn-a-honking, you probably need to get your eyes and ears and brain checked). So... car body destroyed instead of life taken = awesome.

Don't worry, it gets better than simply not killing people... :-)

A term I have heard for the first time this week, and have fallen in love with: Pocket Riders. Pocket Riders are truly awesome. No, this is not some cool new gizmo for geeks. This is a form of virtual support that I have discovered on Pandora's Aquarium (previously mentioned twice in awesomeness, so I am resisting the urge to include it again). If someone is about to face something they aren't sure they can handle -- such as a difficult therapy session, having to face their abuser, disclosing to someone, or just having to deal with a pain-in-the-ass mother-in-law, they will ask for Pocket Riders -- or others will spontaneously offer to jump in their pocket and travel with them. No, nobody is actually jumping in people's pockets -- that would make it hard to walk! But it's symbolic, that they're there with you, giving you invisible support, thinking of you as you go through whatever difficult thing you have to face, and waiting to hear how it went. I have no idea how the concept ever came about, but it's just such a sweet and supportive thing, it makes me very happy. Think pocket travelling might make it into a song someday... In the meantime, there are some very dear new friends currently inhabiting my pyjama pockets and helping me make it through the day -- and I am enjoying the scenery from the pockets of a few others (one of whom is on a coast down south, so I hope she buys me a drink with a pretty umbrella in it!) Yay to Pocket Riders!

A friend of a friend posted this link on his FaceBook wall: Ten Wicked Morsels for Living a Sexy Life, which I really enjoyed. Bits of the writers favourite quotes compiled with her?/his? own life experience, each followed by a question to "give us cause to embark on grand and glorious adventures into the boundless realms." I'm feeling sexier already. :-)

And yes, I know I make jokes about this song and beginner guitar students in every guitar store playing it gawd-awfully and making me want to stab my eyes out with tweezers. BUT... This is a kick-ass rendition of that song we all love to hate beginner-guitar-students-playing-ad-nauseam. It's from a Kennedy Center Honors ceremony earlier this month, in which Led Zeppelin was one of the honourees. Performed by Heart and a cast of dozens, it made Robert Plant cry, and in a Good Way. I have to say, when the choir gets going and Ann Wilson really starts to wail -- GOOSEBUMPS. Man, that gal has pipes!!!

Almost makes you want to forgive the endless hours of lousy players in guitar stores, doesn't it?

And, finally, I gave a "P.S." mention to this last week, but I have to give mention to Chief Theresa Spence, the Idle No More movement, and the people AROUND THE WORLD who are supporting them. Idle No More calls on all people to join in a (peaceful) revolution which honours and fulfills Indigenous sovereignty which protects the land and water. It was initiated by four women: Nina Wilson, Sylvia McAdam, Jessica Gordon and Sheelah McLean in reaction to current and upcoming Canadian legislation that affects not just First Nations people, but the rest of Canada's citizens, lands and waters. In the last month, this grassroots movement has gathered so much momentum and so many supporters, it's just thrilling to watch! If I weren't in such a ridiculous hermit-mode right now, I'd have gone to one of their events, but have had to support them in the cyber-world instead. TwitterTwits, the hashtag is #idlenomore -- tweet away and support this incredible movement!

Happy New Year to one and all. 2012 has, indeed, been pretty awesome. A toast to the past and a look to the future. I'll see you in 2013.]]>
Sun, 30 Dec 2012 19:35:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/this-week-in-awesomeness--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/this-week-in-awesomeness--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterP.S. to Awesomeness This movement, started by three First Nations women, has blossomed into (peaceful) protests throughout the country, including flash mob round dances and drum circles in shopping malls and on government steps. It's quickly building momentum, and has even been getting international support from protesters as far away as the Ukraine!

Awesome discovery, introduced to me by friend B: Pandora's Aquarium. It's an online support group and resource site for survivors of rape and sexual abuse. I mentioned it last week, it's true, but I didn't actually join up until a few days ago. Within minutes of my membership approval, I was warmly greeted by members from all over the world. It's a fabulous community, with many sub-communities based on the type of abuse, what stage you're at in your healing, etc. I've been really enjoying the J.O.Y. (for older survivors) Group -- oy, get me my walking cane! -- and it's been really great to be able to talk with folks going through the same things, and being able to offer support for other folks.

And, just when I was hitting the bottom of the barrel, depression-wise, feeling sorry for myself that I was (yet again) alienated from my family in the season that's supposed to be spent with family, I got this letter from my niece in Friday's mail (she'd even addressed the envelope all by herself!):

(I love how she's made an arrow, so I know to open up the card...)

(I'm still trying to figure out why the sun is a cyclops, but... maybe some things aren't to be understood?)

That's all the awesome I've been able to conjure in this frame of mind, folks. Will try to pick my ass off the floor in time for a truly awesome round of awesomeness next week!

In the meantime, have a fabulous holiday, and hug the ones you love. I'm going to go collect one of those hugs from my awesome-hugger husband. Which makes three awesome things reported on today. :-)]]>
Sun, 23 Dec 2012 20:55:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-not-so-awesome-week-in-awesome--2
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-not-so-awesome-week-in-awesome--2Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe (belated) week in AwesomenessGeez, I made a vow last weekend to give a weekly recap of good news, and I miss it my very first chance! Sorry folks, Friday kind of threw me. But I'm thinking it threw pretty much everyone with a soul, which means we're ALL in need of a little bit of Awesomeness, even if it's a day late.

Up until Friday, my week had been pretty darned awesome. Theo Fleury tweeted last week's "Awesomeness" post, which resulted in more people visiting the blog within an hour than usually show up in a week -- thus introducing me to a whole bunch of really amazing people, some fun brainstorming, and a whole new web of collaborators. The Katie Project has some new supporters, and the inaugural CD has a couple of new song contributors. Which is pretty flippin' awesome, if you ask me! (The high-school orchestra-geek in me is a little freaked out that hockey players are talking to me, but I keep reminding myself that I'm in my forties now, and the world isn't so neatly divided anymore...)

Speaking of hockey players, I'd like to point you all to Theo's Victor Walk "Ambassadors" page: http://victorwalk.com/ambassadors/ , where you can sign the petition to be presented to the Canadian government demanding change in the laws around childhood sexual abuse. You can also download a "Victor Impact Statement" and learn how to organize your own walk if you can't make it to Ottawa in May.

Another great webpage I found this week is Susannah Conway's "Unravelling the year ahead". She offers a (beautiful) downloadable workbook to help say goodbye to 2012 and dream your dreams about 2013. There's also a downloadable monthly planner for 2013, to keep you on course to realizing those dreams you come up with.

For all you fellow survivors, my friend B pointed out a new website (to me) that might be helpful to you as well. Pandora's Project is a huge selection of resources and support for survivors of any type of sexual abuse, as well as their friends and family. It's for men and women at any stage in their healing, LGBTQ-positive, with a message board and chat room, lending library, articles and tons of other resources.

This quote from Mr. Rogers has been circulating everywhere since Friday. I'm sorry if you're sick of it already, but it's just such a beautiful sentiment, and important thing to remember when the world seems bleak:

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping." To this day, especially in times of "disaster," I remember my mother's words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world. - Fred Rogers

"The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things... The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things, and make them unimportant."

Yes, there are some horrible things that happen in the world, but there's always wonderful things happening to counter them. You can lose yourself to despair, or you can see the love and beauty shining through.

I choose to see the love and beauty.

If you'll excuse one more "me" thing, I received a beautiful compliment from an old friend, after he read Saturday's blog post about the shooting. It made me bawl my eyes out, which was rather embarrassing, since I read it waiting for a concert, but... at least they were happy tears.

He said:

You are a ray of sunshine in a dark and scary world.

You'd bawl your eyes out in the audience too, wouldn't you? :-)

That's certainly what I try to be. Living proof that you don't have to let the bad shit get you down. There is always something good to cling to, even if you have difficulty finding it at first. We can't escape the dark and scary stuff, we can just use it to learn and make ourselves better, and then be a light for others whenever we can.

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Mon, 17 Dec 2012 16:58:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-belated-week-in-awesomeness--2
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-belated-week-in-awesomeness--2Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterBut what about the kids who lived?28 people shot to death, including 20 children. And while theories may be cobbled together by whatever bits of evidence remain, we will really never know why, or what was going on in the gunman's head, or what -- if anything -- could have been done to prevent this.

More restrictive gun laws would be the first thing that spring to mind, of course. Not to mention better access and less stigma attached to mental health services. I understand that various people are going to have difficulty with each of those statements. I'll stand by them anyhow.

If the murderer had gone into a school with a lead pipe as his weapon, less people would be dead. Period.

Yes, at least part of his intention seems to have been to cause harm, and he probably would have found a way to do so with or without more restrictive gun laws, but it would have been far more difficult for him to do so, perhaps even giving him some time to come to his senses, or for someone else along the chain to notice something wasn't quite kosher. And the argument that he could have illegally obtained a firearm just doesn't hold much importance, since it appears the firearms he used were all properly obtained and registered.

I got a bit of a raised eyebrow from someone (who didn't know me or my own story) when I tweeted yesterday "What a different day this would be if mental health services were more readily available than personal firearms." He was -- and rightly so -- concerned with a perceived mapping of mental health onto mass killings. I have read others' concerns about that issue, and understand where they're coming from.

But, as you'll hopefully remember from your own elementary school math classes, saying all A = B does NOT mean that all B = A.

As someone who has 30+ years as a "customer" of mental health services, I can safely assure everyone that I have never been a mass murderer. (I can't even bring myself to set up a mousetrap, fer cryin' out loud!) I'm pretty certain that 99.999999999% of my fellow mental-health-care consumers are in the same boat.

HAVING MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES DOES NOT MAKE YOU A MASS MURDERER.

But I think it's pretty safe to say that someone who murders his mother, opens fire on elementary school classrooms and then shoots himself in the head PROBABLY has some pretty major issues, and could have used some help in the mental health department. Which, "mental health" cutting a pretty broad swathe, does not mean he necessarily had a mental illness or personality disorder -- it could have been addictions issues, a traumatic event that made him "snap", PTSD trigger, emotional breakdown, seriously messed-up perceptions of the world, or simply never having been given all the necessary emotional tools for his toolbox. A "diagnosis" at this point is neither possible nor helpful. But it's pretty damned obvious this guy needed help in the emotional and decision-making spheres, and did not receive it. Why not? Again, we'll never know for certain.

To the people who are afraid of mass murders being associated with mental health issues, I'd argue that the danger of stigma arises because the only time we seem to talk about such things is when disaster strikes. We don't talk about mental health issues unless we're forced to. Which is kind of freaking ridiculous, because with the previously-mentioned wide swathe that "mental health" covers, ALMOST EVERYONE has mental health issues at one or more points in their lives. Almost none of them become mass murderers.

We need to start a dialogue, to share our stories, to show everyone that mental health is as important to ourselves and our society as physical health. To show that going to a counsellor or psychiatrist or support group when you need an emotional "tune up" is no more embarrassing than going to the dentist when you have a toothache. Even the most well-adjusted, lovingly-raised, tragedy-free people out there (I'm sure there are some, right?) have things happen to them in their lives that they need help with -- the loss of a loved one, workplace stress, dealing with teenaged kids... whatever. We aren't all born with 100% of the self-knowledge and emotional intelligence we need to handle every single situation we come across in life, and we shouldn't expect ourselves or each other to have it all together.

You don't need to be a gun-toting murderer to need mental health services. Getting help with your mental health does not make you a gun-toting murderer.

And yes, I stand by my statement that if mental health services were more accessible than firearms, yesterday would have been a very different day.

Twenty children died yesterday (mercifully quickly, according to the coroner's report). Six school staff. The gunman and his mother, leaving behind the brother initially accused and now probably dealing with more emotions than he can name. Twenty-seven families who had been looking forward to the upcoming holiday break, but will spend it in grief and mourning instead.

These are the people mentioned in the media reports. These are the lives mourned. And rightfully so.

But what about the other lives ruined yesterday? There are reportedly 626 children enrolled in Sandy Hook Elementary, in kindergarten through grade four. By my calculations, that means the majority of witnesses to this violence were between the ages of 4 and 9, and the kids reported killed were ages 6 and 7, meaning that a bunch of their 6- and 7-year old classmates directly witnessed their murder, and probably narrowly escaped their own.

Which means that 600-or-so children have just had a lifetime of PTSD dumped on them. (And don't even get me started on the poor kids who had reporters' microphones stuffed in their faces mere moments after their escape.)

Which kind of gets me back to the wish that mental health services were as easily accessible as firearms.

We can only hope that these kids and their families are all getting access to trauma counselling right now. Yet, considering the ages of those kids, the effects probably won't surface until the funding for that emergency counselling runs out. Which, in the United States, means that only the lucky kids whose parents have an amazing health plan (not to mention the knowledge of when and how to access care) will get adequate treatment for their trauma. And when they become adults and (hopefully) get health insurance of their own, even if mental health is miraculously covered by their plan, their PTSD will be a pre-existing condition, and therefore not likely covered.

God Bless America.

And thanks to everyone who helped create this fate that I was born in the land of OHIP (that's our provincial health care plan, for those outside of Ontario).

I can NOT imagine where I would be today if I'd ever had to consider the price of my own psychiatric and other mental health treatments. Actually, I can. I'd be depressed, dissociative, and with zero tools in my toolbox to handle my other PTSD symptoms, not to mention handling life-in-general. I would, to use a technical term, be totally f*cked.

From what I can gather in unravelling and re-associating my past, I was these kids' age when I first started to dissociate. And with no psych degree or statistics to back this up, I think kids that age can be REALLY AWESOME at dissociation. I sure was -- a freaking overachiever, as always. ;-)

Have yet to develop the emotional tools to deal with the trauma you're experiencing? No problem -- just pretend it didn't happen. Or it happened to your imaginary friend. It's awesome. I'm not being sarcastic, it REALLY IS AWESOME. I am fascinated by the human brain's ability to save its own life. To keep it safe from things it doesn't know how to deal with, and keep those things neatly packaged away until it's got the knowledge and tools and support it needs to be able to deal with it. While I thought I was stark-raving mad during some of the middle bits, my brain was actually keeping me sane and safe. I am in awe of my brain. :-)

But my brain was only doing what these kids' brains are about to do -- it's just that most kids don't (fortunately!) need to access this particular brain function.

These kids are going to survive and forget and let themselves remember when they're able. They will appear to be "normal", they will appear to have bounced back long before the adults, they will play and joke and play on the monkey bars and be kids again.

Until something triggers them, or until their brains start to let the memories seep back in.

And whether it's the former or latter scenario, this will be the time when THEY think they're stark-raving mad. This will be the time when they need a strong support system. This will be the time they need some kick-ass mental health services. This will be the time when the people around them need to remind them that this is the brain reacting to trauma, that it's OK to ask for help, that it's normal to NEED help in dealing with this.

Trauma isn't a rainy day when you wish it were sunny. TRAUMA IS F*CKING TRAUMA.

Having seen how "well" (yes, that IS sarcasm) their country has dealt with the PTSD of their own First Responders and Veterans, I don't have much faith that they're going to look after these kids any better. After an initial flurry, they'll leave it to the parents -- forgetting, of course, that the parents have now likely been dealt with PTSD symptoms of their very own, and may not be fully capable of dealing with their children's issues adequately, even if they could afford to do so.

Do I seem angry? Yup, I'm angry.

Yes, I'm angry that there isn't stricter gun control. Yes, I'm angry that the gunman got to the point where shooting random children seemed like a good idea. Yes, I'm angry that the Godless Westboro Baptist Church is actually planning to picket the children's funerals. Yes, I'm angry that those insensitive reporters thought the story was more important than the children's well-being. Those are the obvious angers. There are many people angry about all those things.

What I don't hear is any anger over what's happened -- and is going to happen -- to and for the survivors. Right now, they seem to be considered the lucky ones. They are soooo not the lucky ones.

Suffer little children to come unto me...

Right alongside the 28 dead souls, there are going to be 600+ lost souls. That's what's really making me angry.

I hope it makes some others angry too. I hope some of those angry people are in a place where they can do something to help those kids who are still alive, but who died a little inside yesterday. I hope that, once all the hooplah is over, amidst all the anger and calls for prevention of future occurrences (all of which are good calls, don't get me wrong), that someone bothers to help the surviving victims of Friday's massacre.

I challenge the U.S. and Connecticut governments to provide free mental health care to these children in perpetuity.

Because even an angry girl can dream.]]>
Sat, 15 Dec 2012 20:55:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/but-what-about-the-kids-who-lived--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/but-what-about-the-kids-who-lived--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe week in AwesomenessI feel like I've been a bit of a Debbie Downer recently, so have decided to do a weekly "good news" report. And there is much good in the world, so I shouldn't be at a loss any time soon. :-)

First is the much-anticipated announcement of Theo Fleury's Victor Walk! A team of advocates will gather May 14 at the Child Abuse Monument in Toronto, and will walk to Ottawa, arriving on the steps of Parliament Hill on May 23 to demand:

Much tougher legal penalties on pedophiles

Prison time for those who did not immediately report the abuse to the police

A national registry so Canadian parents can be warned when a pedophile moves into their community

Significant government funding for the cure [I am assuming this is referring to healing for the victims, as research indicates there is no cure for pedophilia.]

He is also inviting survivors to submit or bring their Victim (Victor) Impact Statement, to tell their stories and unburden themselves from secrecy.

Guess where I plan to be in May? :-) If you can't do the walk or be in Ottawa, they've put together a kit to start a Victor Walk in your own community. There's also ways to donate, purchase "Victor Movement" swag, and download a copy of the anthem "Walk with Thousands" (Fleury is also a singer-songwriter, Mister Multi-Talented Guy).

There's a video of the song on YouTube -- I wish the other musicians were named, but it's got banjo, so I'm happy. :-)

Up next, I'd like to share an amazing quote and graphic which my friend Tina shared on FaceBook a few days ago:

If the print is too small or grainy, here's what the quote says:

"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better." Anne Lamott

To which I say, "Amen, Sister!"

Way up in the top right corner, you'll see a credit to FromTracie.com -- being the curious type (and wanting permission to post this amazing graphic!), I went to check it out. It turns out, Tracie is a fellow survivor, blogger and advocate -- please do visit and check out what she has to say!

Through her site, I also found a number of others, all of which equally fit the awesomeness criteria:

These are all about people telling their stories, and being part of each other's healing process. Which, as you might have noticed, is kind of my thing. :-)

It has been a tough slog going through these books and seeing my life in print -- although I am very much looking forward to Part Two: Reclaiming Your Life, which promises to help put some more useful tools into my toolbox.

Reading through the case studies and descriptions of these types of behaviours and what they do to a young mind, I have to say I'm kind of amazed with (and proud of -- yes, that was my outside voice!) myself for staying alive this long and not becoming a crack whore...

Because being alive and not a crack whore is pretty damned awesome! :-)

So... Part I is the birthday recap, Part II will be what have I learned this year and what do I hope to learn in the coming year.

Ahem...

Birthday Recap

The birthday week started out quite well, with Therapy Monday (yay therapy day!) being followed up with our FINALLY having a fully-functional kitchen for the first time in almost a full year. (Yes, I said it with my outside voice, so you just know the gas stove is about to explode... send hunky firefighters!)

My BEST GIFT EVER wasn't even a birthday gift, as far as I know. On Tuesday, our friendly neighbourhood postal worker (no, she really IS friendly) knocked on the front door with a large-ish package for me. I will admit, I was more than a little apprehensive, after the last very-large package delivered to the door (see here if you don't get the reference), but... I didn't recognize the handwriting as anything familial, so started to breathe again. And then I noticed the "Official Gate-Keeper Survival Kit" printed in red along the bottom of the envelope... Mwahaahaaaaa! Friend and fellow survivor DVS, in her forever-creative way, had sent me a care package. Inside was a card with a chocolate bar taped to it and the instructions "Step One: EAT CHOCOLATE" on the envelope. I pulled out the remaining package contents and read the card, which explained it all:

Gate Keeper Survival Kit

Just add Alcohol

(preferably in a sippy cup so pudding doesn't get in it)

Chocolate -- eat first to set the mood

Pudding, chocolate of course and apparently fat-free so eat as much as you like!

Shower Cap -- so you don't get said pudding in your hair... that might be nasty.

Scandal survival handbook... how the rich & famous handle it! AKA National Enquirer

(If you don't understand the pudding references, visit the bottom of this post.)

This was totally unexpected, and had me hooting and laughing for hours. Then Don came home, and I hooted and laughed some more. I seriously needed some hooting and laughing this month...

Later that day, once of my cello students also gave me an awesome birthday gift, without realizing it. She bashfully came into her lesson, admitting she hadn't really practised in the past week, because she was too busy trying to figure out how to play two of her favourite songs. I asked if she'd had any luck, and she produced HER OWN HAND-WRITTEN MANUSCRIPT of the two songs. I asked her how she'd figured it out, and she said she'd listened to the songs a few times and tested things out on her cello to make sure she'd written them down correctly. I withstood the urge to burst into happy tears and hug her on the spot, but did tell her what an amazing thing she had just been able to accomplish, especially when she's only been playing cello for two years. And then I did my best to not grin and blubber like a crazy fiend throughout the rest of her lesson, as she played her arrangements and tried to figure out how to make them better. ONE PROUD MAMA, let me tell you. :-)

Wednesday was another musical gift, although one that did remind me of how much I've been missing since leaving the musical metropolis. I'd been asked to sub in on a chamber music concert, and had half-heartedly said yes, because I didn't really know anything about the organizers and, sorry to say, this is an area where volunteer community orchestra members are considered "pros", so my expectations are not terribly high. Well, those expectations were blown out of the water, as I found myself playing with people who ACTUALLY WERE pros. First music high I've had since playing with Victor freakin' Wooten in Feb.'11 (see here for that reference) -- and that was just the rehearsal (the concert was Friday). Granted, the majority of the players had been imported from further south, but it was so refreshing and revitalizing to be able to play a concert with only one rehearsal together and have it not suck, to work with players who spent the rehearsal discussing phrasing and dynamics, instead of just trying to get the right notes, who actually gave a crap about the music. I was finally excited about my chosen profession again. Halle-freaking-lujah!

Perhaps it was this newly-reawakened longing to live closer to potential musical collaborators, perhaps it was the cumulative effects of this past month, perhaps a bit of both, but on Thursday -- the actual birthday day -- I was fighting one nasty bitch of a depression. To the extent that I caught myself staring at the paper-slicer / guillotine in my office and fantasizing about what might happen if I used it to slice my fingers down to the first knuckle. Fortunately, the majority of me thought that this was a bad idea, but the bit of me that came up with the idea did take quite a bit of talking down. Which freaked me out a little (!), because I haven't had any self-harm ideas since my high school years -- in which I would flatten myself against the back wall of the subway platform (and preferably at the front of the train), just in case a part of me decided to jump, as I hoped that would give the other parts of me time to talk that bit out of it before the train came. I imagine this finger-slicing bit of me was at least closely related to that bit. I suppose this self-destructive fragment could have been triggered by this month's goings-on, although it seems rather strange that she would re-appear just when I'm more determined than ever to stay alive, be fully functional, and shout my story to the rooftops. Maybe she's still terrified of that concept. Or maybe, as with all the other dissociated bits that have taken their own sweet time to make an appearance, she now knows it's safe to show herself, to become integrated with all the other shards, where she'll be loved and protected, at last. I will go with the latter for now, barring any future finger-mutilation urges.

Suffice it to say, my fingers are still fully intact. Hence the typing. :-)

And I managed to get my public face back on again in time for my sweetie to take me around the corner to Era 67 for dinner. There, we were greeted by my birthday twin, Cory, who made sure we were treated right. :-) That's me and my birthday twin below (he's the one with the Movember 'stache, in case you were wondering).

Regular readers of our Brights blog are probably clamouring for the food and beverage report. I'd hate to disappoint! We'd brought a bottle of our favourite Amarone, but wanted to give it a chance to breathe (nice excuse, huh?), so Cory decanted the wine while I had a Cosmopolitan and Don a rye & water (Cosmo is so much prettier!). We usually split an appetizer, but Cory said the shrimp appetizer only had 4 shrimp, so we figured we'd each have an order. He failed to mention that they were MUTANT shrimp, however. Yes, that piece of battered yumminess that resembles a turkey leg below is actually a shrimp! Note to self: go back to sharing an appetizer.

A (slightly inebriated) woman at the table next to us and her husband were enjoying an anniversary dinner together, and we got chatting away -- they made fun of Don for taking pictures of food, but they obviously don't understand that sometimes the most interesting things we have to say are food-related. ;-) (Seriously, I've actually had readers of our Brights blog COMPLAIN when I forget to include the food and beverage report in our tour reports...)

My main course was maple cranberry salmon over a bed of wild rice. Maple cranberry salmon is almost as good as wine. Almost. Sadly, I was so full from those Pterodactyl legs shrimp that I could only make it partway through. Don also had to take home a doggie bag (very rare occurrence!) for his breaded pork chop on a bed of garlicky mashed potatoes.

Just when we thought we could eat no more, Cory presented us with a special birthday treat: a warm butter tart on creme anglaise, garnished with fresh fruit -- we ordered some Dalwhinnie to wash it all down.

We waddled home, painfully. Where we decided to have some more birthday single malt and stay up talking until the wee hours as we digested. This might have been a mistake, as I had a 10:00 cello student the next morning! (I did manage to wake up, and be vaguely coherent for said student, although promptly went back to sleep and didn't wake up until it was time to get ready for the chamber gig!)

Fortunately, our stomachs and livers had recovered adequately for the Birthday Dinner Party / Sleepover (kind of like when we were kids, only this included wine and boys). Seven friends and one Chocolate Lab (the canine, not edible variety) joining us for another night of too much food and beverage. It started with champagne and a toast to moi that had me already teary (and I hadn't even drunk the champagne yet), with some antipasto appetizers that Lisa & Paul brought. Then Don headed to the barbecue, Lisa and I headed to the wine, and everyone bustled around to get the rest of the food ready. First, Ray custom-mixed salads for each of us, then we had Ali's creamy roasted red pepper soup, then steak for the carnivores and maple-teriaki salmon for the pescavores (if that's not a real word, it should be). For each course, Ray played sommelier, pouring (lots of) wine to match each dish. Once again, we were rather stuffed. But wait, there's more! Roy and Sue had brought not one, but TWO birthday cakes -- see the dessert picture from Thursday. Much chatting and laughter into the night. Lisa was the first to change into pyjamas, followed closely by Ali. I went to change into mine, and my body said "jammies! bed! they won't notice..." so I never returned downstairs. Apparently they sent a scout to make sure I was OK, but I was already fast asleep. Most of the others filed off to their respective beds shortly thereafter, other than my beloved hubby and Ray, who were reportedly up until 5:45 drinking scotch and talking. So, for once in my life, I was actually the first person to wake up the next morning! (Other than Ali, who had to head to the farm to play with horses.) Don made us all breakfast, and everyone was on their way home before he realized just how hungover he truly was... Other than the hubby's hangover, it had been the perfect Birthday Weekend, surrounded by people who love me and support me, and who have stuck by us both in some pretty trying times these past couple of years.

I spent the afternoon in joy-filled, feeling-the-love bliss.

To quote myself: Do you see where this is going? Because I did not see where this was going...

Yes, friends, there was one birthday present left to be delivered: a brand-new cannonball-to-the-gut, courtesy of the Gate-Keeper-of-the-Month. Perfectly timed, perfectly aimed. As one friend (and cannonball recipient) commented: "of course, she KNOWS it's your birthday weekend, so... why not piss on the parade?"

You see, after her previous cannonball -- in which she attempted to turn my husband, best friend, and various other friends, family and supporters against me by saying I was lying about my childhood sexual abuse, but if it had occurred she hadn't known about it, gaslight, lie, deny, denydeny, denysomemore... I had, in a weak moment of believing she might still have some semblance of sense and reality about her, sent her a "cease and desist" letter, including some samples of evidence I had on hand (from the oft-mentioned two filing cabinets, ancient hard drives and basement full of boxes) to disprove just one of the lies she had consistently been including in her e-mails to my friends and family -- said lie being that she had never known of the abuse, and we had never spoken of it before. Thinking, of course, that being able to back myself up with hard evidence -- including her own damned handwriting -- might appeal to some hidden logical side within, or at least scare her self-preserving side out of being caught in more bold-faced lies in the future.

She did not reply to me, of course -- I'm still non-existant for her. She completely avoided me, and once again turned to my friends and family, to once again try to convince them I'm a lying piece of shit. Completely ignoring the documentation dealing with my 1983 disclosure and her own actions (though mostly inactions) upon said disclosure, later (witnessed) discussions with her about my past abuse, and even later written correspondence to and from her. Attempting, in fact, to use one of those pieces of her own correspondence as proof of her original point that we had never discussed the matter before. Which makes about as much friggin' sense as... well, I can't even think of a good simile for such a bizarre thought pattern, so my fellow writers are going to have to chime in here.

And I will admit, I should have known better, but there was still a little part of me that had been hoping that seeing but a smidgen of the (two filing cabinets, etc.) evidence I have of my story would have shocked her into an "aha! I should stop abusing her over her abuse story" moment. Yes, foolish in hindsight, but I won't be holding out that candle again, never fear.

In fact, I had had very little hope she would "cease and desist" for my sake -- because, seriously, what kind of person reads the diary of a little girl who wishes her father would stop raping her, and then sporadically and unpredictably goes on the warpath against that girl for the next 30+ years over it? -- but thought she'd at least go into self-preservation mode once she knew that I could back up my story quite easily, and it was really her own credibility she was destroying. But... sigh... I guess even saving face and keeping things quiet takes a back seat to roiling around in the same old patterns she's been employing since... well, probably before I was even born.

Which (finally) brings me around to Part II:

What Have I Learned This Year?

A. Lot.

First of all, there's the purely practical. In beginning to research for this book-I-promised-my-nightmares-I'd-write (read here and here for that explanation), I have learned far more about childhood sexual abuse, incest, codependence, enabling, toxic people, domestic abuse and family dysfunction than I really ever wanted to know (but everyone really should know).

In that research, and in diving in deeper to my own story and opening up more about it, I have met some wonderful people, and joined forces with some amazing dragon-slayers.

I have learned, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am not alone. That none of us are. That, while each of our stories is unique, there are common threads running through them. Common patterns that we all thought were ours alone. Ridiculously, depressingly common patterns that I so wish had been explained to me and my brother and sister survivors, victors and thrivers when we were kids. "Survival Ed 101".

What a different childhood (and resulting adulthood) we could have all had if, instead of teaching us "don't take candy from strangers", we had been taught "no adult should tell you to keep a secret", "nobody else can tell you what your feelings are", "trust your gut", "nobody, even the people you love, is perfect", "if you're afraid of something, there's probably a good reason for it", "you have the right to say no to anything that makes you uncomfortable", or "you deserve to feel safe and secure and loved, no matter what."

In reading these case studies, and my brothers' and sisters' stories, these messages were all lacking. Yes, there are a few lucky ones whose caregivers learned of the abuse and stood up to fight FOR them, and did whatever they could to get them out of harm's way, and provide them with the necessary tools and resources for healing. These seem to be the minority, unfortunately. (Or, at least, they didn't end up so messed up as adults that they needed enough therapy to turn themselves into a case study!) The majority of folks -- at least those who needed therapy and trauma counselling in later years -- are the ones who had nowhere to turn, either because of family dysfunction or organizational dysfunction, or perhaps even a bit of both. These are the kids who weren't taught it was ok to say no, they were taught they didn't have the right. That they shouldn't ever say bad things about Uncle Fred or their baseball coach or their pastor. That they should never question anyone in authority (i.e., a grown-up).

I have learned that we all have internalized and externalized these messages in very similar ways. That these messages have continued to be reinforced in very similar ways.

And yes, the similarities are more than a little bit on the depressing side, but it's also really great to be able to sit back and say "oh yes, you're currently re-enacting case study L -- this really isn't about me, is it?" I've FINALLY learned to not take the Gate-Keeper-of-the-Month's -- or any of the Gate-Keepers' -- antics personally.

I have finally learned that there is absolutely nothing I can or ever will be able to do to stop those antics. I have learned to save my energy. I have learned to hug and squeeze and love that little girl inside and give her the things she was never able to receive, to remind her that she won't ever be able to get those things from the people she was supposed to get it from, but that there are literally hundreds of people in her life now who are ready, willing and eager to give them to her, and she doesn't have to tap-dance up a storm to get them, they're just hers.

I have (again, finally) learned to give up hope that these Gate-Keepers are capable of change. As one friend recently said: "She's never going to be able to see your truth. She's never going to want to see your truth. This is how she treated you 40 years ago, this is how she treated you 30 years ago, this is how she treated you 20 years ago, this is how she treated you 10 years ago, this is how she's treating you now. She is still denying and fighting your truth, and in doing so, she is very clearly showing you hers: this is who she is, this is who she was, this is who she always will be. You need to believe her."

I finally do. We went through this whole scenario ten years ago (minus her trying to drag family and friends into the cyclone I refused to step into this time) and I had to shut of all contact. After a while, toes were dipped, cyclones remained calm, and I went back in, thinking we had graduated into a state of at least agree-to-disagree. I was wrong.

I laughed with Don last night -- there are a number of friends for whom I lament that they keep ending up with the same kind of partner, and it keeps ending the same bad way. But geez, at least they're falling for DIFFERENT people -- I've just been falling over and over again for the same patterns with the same damned person! How many people have been breaking their hearts and tearing out their hair watching me do this? (Don't answer that, the guilt might slay me!)

I have learned that it's my right -- and probably responsibility -- to protect myself from and stay away from the toxic people in my life.

I have learned that there are lots of non-toxic (and probably free-range organic) people ready to take their places. I have learned that I don't have to tap dance to make them love me (which is good, because I was never meant to be a dancer...)

As others from the past learn of my story, I have learned that I don't remember as much as I thought I did -- there are apparently some fragments still missing. One friend recently recalled watching in horror as my father ripped off my clothes and beat me mercilessly with a hairbrush in front of her when she came home for lunch with me in grade 3. (I do remember being afraid of his spankings, but didn't remember the hairbrush part, nor that he did it in front of friends.) Another who remembers feeling terribly uncomfortable around him, but didn't have the knowledge or vocabulary to put her finger on it as a kid. Another who felt it was her duty to stay with my sister at all times, although she didn't really know why. Another who recalls a super-inappropriate incident with him when she came to visit, that scared her into never coming back to the house (even after hearing her story, I have zero recollection of it myself, though I do remember thinking I had done something wrong and she didn't like me anymore). There are many little pieces to keep gathering in -- my work is nowhere close to done.

But I AM in a safe place in which to do it now, so I imagine these memories will come back more and more quickly, once they see it's OK.

2-4-6-8 Think it's time to integrate. :-)

I have, or at least started to, absorbed the lesson I wanted to learn last birthday -- that it's OK to meet my own needs, that it's OK to look after myself, that it's OK to be me.

Mission accomplished.

What do I hope to learn in the coming year?

Well, I want to learn more about these hitherto-unknown bits and pieces of fragmented-little-kid me. What shattered them, what they have to tell me, what they have to teach me.

Although what I most want is to DO. To do something with all this information, with all this learning, with all this barfing-up-of-my-intestines. To dig myself out from this legacy and, in turn, help others with their shovelling -- or, EVEN BETTER, to prevent them from needing a shovel in the first place.

I want to learn my passions. Not my reactions, but my passions. Because I'm a bloody passionate person, let me tell you. :-) But I feel I've been reacting for so long, doing what has to be done and what I figure ought to be done, that now that I'm without a life-and-death situation or a particular crusade, I've been feeling a little aimless.

And yes, I realize it's kind of silly for someone who's starting up a charitable organization and writing a book and running a performance career and might-be-about-to-be-talked-into-another-solo-album to feel aimless, but... maybe I just have to get used to the fact that doing the things I'm passionate about is actually an aim... not to mention a passion...

Well, click my ruby red slippers together, we're still in week one and I just gave myself the answer to the thing I wanted to learn...

OK, I guess I need to re-learn a couple of the things about meeting my own needs and being me being enough. Positive reinforcement and all that... Maybe I should give myself a follow-up exam.

I would love to learn how to not let the Gate-Keepers send me into a big barfy braincloud -- although I have a feeling that the events of the last month have taught me that already. The braincloud came in the beginning, but the more recent attacks sent me more into the "this again? give me a break!" mode. Of course, I could see the more recent ones coming -- guess we'll have to see what happens when it comes out of the blue (because you just know it will...).

Gotta learn how to run a charitable organization!

Can't wait to learn what kind of nutbars are willing to read a darkly humorous book about child abuse!

But, seriously...

I guess what I really want to learn is how to take care of that little girl. To make sure she has all the tools in her toolbox, yes, but to make sure she knows they were supposed to be hers all along. And that the reason she never got them isn't because she didn't deserve them, but because there was nobody around who had them to give.

She doesn't need a hammer to change a lightbulb, and she really shouldn't stick a screwdriver in the toaster unless it's unplugged, because it's not as much fun as it looks (although her tap-dancing might improve...). That she doesn't need to earn or find justification for being loved. That being loved is a lot less scary than the toaster scenario.

That there is nothing wrong or shameful in being true to herself, or her story.

Because the "sick day" I awarded myself on Tuesday has dragged on to the 5-day mark, as I work through and allow myself to feel all I need to feel. They say once you allow yourself to feel your feelings, you stop being overwhelmed with them -- I'm hoping that's the case, because I'm getting really tired of crying and screaming and those weird wails that keep coming out of my mouth at the most inopportune times...

Happy to report, though, that I have found my anger. It was hidden in the filing cabinets and old computer and basement full of boxes that I've been sifting through to remind myself I'm not the crazy one -- and, as I should have known without having to go through the damned boxes, I am sooooo not the crazy one. But as long as the Gate-Keepers still have the power to send me into the big barfy braincloud, I am hanging on to all the evidence, thank you very much.

Guess I should back-track, eh what?

As mentioned in the previous blog post, the Gate-Keeper's (can we just call her GK to keep it short?) abusive behaviour escalated on Monday -- as could have been easily predicted, since I wasn't playing along.

In fact, I was doing such a great job of avoiding the landmines along the ski-hill -- breathe and don't engage, swish, breathe and don't engage, swoosh, breath and don't engage, aerial! -- that she decided to take out a semi-automatic and go for my friends and family instead.

Various versions of an e-mail were sent out to anyone she thought might have read my blog (not a clue who or how many, or on what criteria she based her list of recipients) -- which seems a bit of a strange tactic, since she didn't want people to read the stuff I'd written about my childhood, and judging from the spike in blog stats, she actually introduced a lot of folks to the information who would not have read it otherwise (but hey, thanks for the new readership...).

Depending on the recipient, I was portrayed as either confused, mistaken, someone who always liked to "creatively embellish", or a flat-out liar hell-bent on character assassination. ALL of the e-mails (at least the ones that have been reported back to me) included the claim that she had never known of my father's sexual abuse when it was happening, I had never ever told her anything about it, nor had we ever discussed it, and she only heard mention of it recently when she read the tag in my e-mail about the Katie Foundation.

Uh... SERIOUSLY?!?!?

For those of you who haven't been paying attention over the years: NEVER LIE TO OR ABOUT A CHICK WHO HAS TWO FILING CABINETS, ALL HER OLD HARD-DRIVES AND A BASEMENT FULL OF BOXES!!!

And yes, it pisses me off that I had to go through all those files and boxes and hard drives on Tuesday to remind myself that I wasn't the one making things up, and talk to other witnesses from back then to remind myself I wasn't imagining things. It pisses me off that GK is still trying to convince me, and now my family and friends, that I'm the crazy one.

And then I think -- HOLY CRAP, I'm in my forties now and can figure it all out. They were putting me through this same B.S. when I was a little kid who had no way of taking care of herself.

And that's when I need the frigging pudding room. (See bottom of Marking the Days for that reference.)

Going back through my diaries, I read through the details of my initial disclosure -- which was in grade seven, and was transmitted to all family members of my parents' generation and above within a few weeks, as evidenced by the entries that lament my relatives are treating me differently since they heard.

Just the entries leading up to the disclosure were heartbreaking: "I walked to school with Cait and Ali. I had science. My history teacher is a jerk. I had a ham sandwich for lunch. I think Eric likes me. I walked home with Cait because Ali had a doctor's appointment. I wish Dad would stop raping me. We had chicken casserole for dinner. I'm in a bad mood today." (The fact that my father raping me seems to have the same importance in my life as a ham sandwich is bewildering... although I never did like ham.)

But those were the entries my mother finally read, after my leaving the diary on the living room couch for several months with "Mom, PLEASE read this!" on the cover. She read it, and I braced myself for the chaos and family upheaval I had been dreading to cause for years. She showed it to my father, and I braced myself for the family to come crashing down. She showed it to my grandparents, and I waited for the world to explode. She told the aunts, uncles, close family friends, and I waited for life as I knew it to be ripped out from under me.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited...

But absolutely nothing happened. Nothing changed. Life as I knew it continued on as usual. All the parts of life as I knew it. Not just the ham sandwiches. Move along, nothing to see here...

As an adult, it's easy to see how wrong that was. (OK, as an adult who's gone through several decades of therapy, I can now easily see how wrong that was.) But I was not an adult.

So "move along, nothing to see here, let's pretend this never happened" had some devastating consequences. Not only was I NOT being protected from my father's abuse, I had lost the fantasy about someday being protected -- and my little-kid brain had to figure out a rational explanation for that lack of protection, as well as figure out a way to protect itself until I could get out of that fun-house world.

In reading the diary entries following my initial disclosure, I noticed something I hadn't previously -- there are a number of dates after which my handwriting changes dramatically. Not a gradual maturation or experimenting with a new style, but a sudden, complete turn-around. Big swoopy letters suddenly become small cursive, the angle changes from right to left, serifs are added or subtracted. The fragmenting of my mind made visual.

From later, adult years, I find yet more correspondence with GK of the "you're making this up, it never happened" variety, interspersed with the "oh how hard it was on us, but we did everything to protect you" variety, a smattering of the "it couldn't have happened like you remember it" variety, and the "what on earth are you talking about, I've never heard about this before" variety, and, of course, my favourite "prove it!" variety.

Crazy-making.

Truly crazy-making reasons why I still keep everything -- a touchstone to remind myself of reality, and the myriad ways in which Gate-Keepers of every stripe will try to erase it. And, considering the number of times this has happened in the last 20 years, a good reminder of why I should breathe and not engage, breathe and not engage.

There is no way I will ever be able to convince the Gate-Keepers of my story or my right to tell it. At least not in a way that it will be remembered in an hour's time. A basement full of proof, and I still have to "prove it!" to myself, fer cryin' out loud!

And that's where I see it -- the anger and the sadness that I was forced to fragment my mind in order to fit in a world that was so utterly dangerous for me. If only I could send a message back to little-girl me and say "hey kid, it's not your mind that's the problem, you can trust your senses, you can trust your memories, you can trust your feelings -- they're trying to convince you of something that is simply not true because they can't deal with the truth, not because it isn't true." Oh yeah, and "maybe stay away from the ham sandwich..."

I see, in these files and boxes and hard drives, that even as recently as ten years ago, I was still trying to make it all make sense. This giant, neurotic, swirling cyclone that arose between GK and myself as I tried to make it all make sense. The cyclone she seems to need to happen again, is so desperate to happen again that she will give up on silent anonymity in order to drag others into the void I refuse to step into. Which is quite sad.

Though it's kind of tricky to be sad for someone who is pointing a semi-automatic (or a totally-knee-jerk-automatic) at your head and at the heads of your family and friends...

Crazy-making.

Instead, I feel sad for the little girl who wrote in big swoopy letters that angled to the right and had lots of pretty ornaments. For whom being assaulted by her father was just as much a part of her daily routine as walking to school and eating lunch. Whose caregivers would not or could not give her care.

And I hold her hand and give her a really big hug, and we cry together, and stamp our feet and punch pillows and make those weird howling sounds together until we exhaust ourselves. I get angry on her behalf ('cause she's not so good with anger, but I'm slowly learning). I tell her she really didn't deserve any of this. I tell her we're OK now. We're safe. The totally-knee-jerk-automatic weapon aimed at our heads only hurts us if we believe in it. I show her the boxes to remind her not to believe in any of it.

And then we take out our notebook and coloured pens, and in big swoopy ornamented letters, we design the ski jump for our Pudding Room.]]>
Sat, 24 Nov 2012 15:59:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/i-wonder-if-steve-podborski-had-weeks-like-this--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/i-wonder-if-steve-podborski-had-weeks-like-this--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterMarking the Day(s)I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you again today. Things have escalated, in rather predictable fashion, and I just don't have the energy.

Instead, I've decided to call a sick day, and have that nervous breakdown I've been promising myself for months. (Well, once the appliance repair guy leaves, anyhow... don't want things to get too messy!) Jammies, books and comfort food -- and, happily, yesterday my therapist prescribed me daily foot massages from Don! (I love my therapist...) I will also be indulging my inner child by designing her a Pudding Room*, at least on paper -- still have to convince Don about converting the garage, but maybe if I distract him with a new kitten, he won't notice the construction...

But I did want to mark the day(s), at least, as it's so important for people to be aware of the issues, and to know where to seek the help they need.

Here are a few of my favourite places -- if you know of others, please add them in the comments below, because I'd like to include a page on the Katie Foundation website of such sites:

Break the silence, shout it out. Let's make that 1 in 4 statistic whimper.

In solidarity (and jammies)Alyssa

*Pudding Room

An idea my friend and I came up with last night -- there may have been wine involved. A therapy room with BIG BOWLS OF PUDDING you can fling at the walls as you safely vent your rage (don't think anyone's ever been injured by pudding, but we will research this, just in case...). When you're finished, sprinklers come out of the ceiling and wash it all down the drain in the middle of the floor.

Or, if you're like another friend who commented on the idea, you could just sit in the middle of the room and eat all the pudding. Unless, of course, your trauma has manifested as an eating disorder, in which case that might not be such a good idea...

The Pudding Room can be used for whatever makes you feel better, without causing yourself or others harm. (And it comes in several great flavours!)]]>
Tue, 20 Nov 2012 13:25:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/marking-the-day-s--4
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/marking-the-day-s--4Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterKeep speaking your truth -- and find your tribeOK, I obviously lied again about not posting here for a while. :-)

But I've been a little worried that all the past few weeks' posts about being socked in the gut by a GateKeeper might be a bit discouraging for those of you with stories to tell, so I thought I'd share something my friend Sue sent me, via Chris Cade:

I think I might have to have this made into a t-shirt! :-)

Yes, keep speaking the truth -- but don't expect the people embroiled in the situation to listen, or handle it well. As you can easily see from my "adventures" this month, and in my childhood, you need to be rather judicious about who you share your truth with first. The best bet is an outsider. The best bet is someone with experience in a situation that resembles yours -- either because they've been there themselves, or because they've been trained in how to help guide you through the cobwebs.

Depending on the truth that's aching to get out, this could be a crisis hotline, a medical or emotional health professional, a support group (for those of you living in low-population areas that might not have such "in person" support groups, you can find many such things online these days -- as with the traditional models, not one size fits all, shop around until you find something that's a good fit for you), or another big-mouthed blogger who's been-there-done-that and probably has lots of resources (s)he can point out, as well as a pour-yourself-a-cup-of-tea-and-let-me-tell-you-you're-not-alone comfort.

As you know, I've got decades of therapy under my belt (and probably more decades ahead). And they made a world of difference -- can you imagine how completely nuts I'd be now without them? ;-) But while those sessions were (and are) important and helpful to me, it was the support group that finally gave me the "aha! I'm not the crazy one" moments. Because much as a trained professional can help you see your patterns and help you collect some better tools for your mental and emotional toolbox, there's nothing like laughing with fellow survivors when you discover the latest in the "oh lordy, I thought I was the only one who..." stories.

Misery loves company, I suppose, but it's also good to be able to laugh at your misery every once in a while. :-)

I just finished watching at TedX talk by another friend and fellow musician, Heather Dale: http://new.livestream.com/tedx/events/1665479 (scroll to about 58:00 and you'll hear Denise Donlon's introduction to her speech), which is all about "finding your tribe". Because all you have to do is look around, and you'll find like-minded people, who think what you do is the most amazing thing in the world, and will share with you and support you. In this internet age, it's so much easier to find, too -- there are webpages for pretty much everything you can think of (some stranger than others, and I'd advise you to think carefully of your search terms, lest you come up with some disturbing surprises... ).

Because I can guarantee you, whatever you thought "I'm the only one in the world who..." about -- you're not. Yes, you're a unique and fascinating individual, but you are never alone. Never.

That's been some of the "fun" (if you can call it that) of reading this book about enabling family members in incest cases. Because, while I'm still guilty of sometimes thinking "hey, I thought I was the only one who...", I've been reading 186 pages worth of case studies and summaries that tell me nope, not even remotely the only one. Everything I've gone through has a mirror, and a context, and an explanation, AND A WAY TO GET PAST IT. As many times as this book has reduced me to tears this month, it's also given me those same laughs of recognition that I'm not alone. There are a whole lot of people -- far too many people -- who are walking this path with me.

And misery does love company. Not because we like to wallow in misery, but because we know how to help lift each other out of it. We laugh, we cry, we fight our dragons, then we set out to help others fight theirs.

And speaking of musical friends, we had Rob Lutes staying with us last night -- a brilliant songwriter, one smart cookie, and really wonderful person, so go search him out and invite him into your tribe -- and he gave us a copy of his not-yet-released new album The Bravest Birds. I've listened to it three times this afternoon, and am about to turn on a fourth round. Tears, laughter, dragons. He digs deep, and it's a thing of beauty. I'm not just enjoying listening to it, I'm being inspired -- for me, the best songwriters make me want to write my own. I don't know why, but as someone trapped in a dry patch, I think I'll be listening to a lot more of this CD. :-) Glory glory hallelujah.

OK, I'm really going back into Hermit mode now. Honest. I mean it this time... ;-)

The Gate-Keeper is still on a rampage, mind you... so I must admit, my shoulders are still around my ears, as I brace myself for the next attack (seriously, I had TWO massage appointments last week, and you'd never know it...).

Quick update:

Earlier last week, I received a giant package in the mail of letters and cards I'd sent said Gate-Keeper over the years, childhood concert programmes, stories and poems I wrote as a kid, and several file-folders of other "memories of Lyssy" artifacts (kind of surprised it wasn't sent C.O.D., but...)

Yeah, point taken. Thank you very much.

And yes, it hurt like hell. BUT (silver lining, Lyssy always has a frigging silver lining...) at least there was a RIDICULOUSLY CLEAR shift from passive-aggressive into the wide world of aggressive -- which, honestly, is much easier to deal with. Kind of a relief, actually, when you get rid of all those extra layers of second-guessing.

Plus, being cut-off and non-existant saves a lot of tap-dancing energy, once you get over the giant cannonball that's just been lobbed into your gut.

[Of course, I mentioned this to my therapist, kind of non-chalantly, I guess, and her immediate reaction was "What kind of person actually DOES something like that?!?", so maybe I'm just in full-on denial. But then I told her that this was actually pretty mild for folks in my family, and mentioned that one time when my grandmother was angry with my mother, she actually enlisted my father to disinter my dead (well, I guess the dead part was obvious with the disinterring, but...) grandfather and move him to a secret spot we'll never know about. Said therapist was stunned into silence for a moment, and then started scribbling furiously before making sure I was fully aware that normal people don't do such things. (Oh yes, I'm very aware... there's a good reason why I've been in various forms of therapy most of my adult life!)]

A few brief moments of silence, when suddenly:

Apparently I wasn't COMPLETELY non-existant to Ms. Gate-Keeper for long, as this you-no-longer-exist-for-me package was soon followed up with an e-mail missive (a word I chose because it's so close to the word "missile", which would also be quite accurate). This contained a number of selected, selectIVE, and often ridiculously out-of-context quotes from blogs past, with some segments bolded (I assume to indicate her disapproval, although a legend was not included...). These quotes were followed by a series of "footnotes" which were filled with so much denial, gaslighting, half-truths, some downright lies, and so many other forms of verbal and emotional abuse that I was triggered into a massive barfy braincloud on the spot.

[Interestingly, the points she decided to pick apart were mostly really minor, piddly details that really didn't change the bigger picture -- she totally ignored the whole family-led-me-into-it-on-a-silver-platter details -- but attacked this minor stuff with such ferocity and desperation that I imagine her Denial (with a capital "D") wouldn't allow those other major points to have actually registered in her mind. Sigh... Yes, here I am again, trying to understand and forgive the folks who can't bring themselves to forgive me for having a memory or being me... But that's the only way I'm going to get out of this with some semblance of sanity, so I'll keep doing what I do.]

Back to the triggered massive barfy braincloud: I have to tell you, it was REALLY DIFFICULT to keep my therapist's and support team's "breathe and don't engage, breathe and don't engage, breath and don't engage" present and face-forward -- but I succeeded (Don treated me to creamy mac & cheese and Rioja, which didn't hurt). Yay me.

Of course, 5am rolled around, and I had already composed a 13-page essay in my head of how to explain myself better to her... Until 7:30 rolled around, and I remembered that juggling chainsaws in my belly meant verbal abuse, and I should just breathe and not engage, breathe and not engage. Hmm... guess those folks were right! ;-)

[But... sorry folks, just have to rant for a moment: She takes something I said about child abuse in general, a neurotic tendency I was worried about in myself, and a complaint I had against my paediatrician as being a personal insult ALL about her, and then takes offence at my saying narcissism runs in the family -- how, exactly, do you define "irony"? AND, apparently my recurring nightmares shouldn't have the images they have -- seriously, subconscious, you should try a little harder to repress your memories so the Gate-Keepers don't get offended... AND, in this shopping-list of ways she thinks I'm attacking the family, she obviously chose to totally ignore all the "I forgive - " "I can totally see where they came from with - " "I don't blame them - " and "It's not their fault - " prefaces to these points, and instead CHOSE TO BE MAD ABOUT THE THINGS I'VE FORGIVEN!!! Oy, just the tip of the iceberg... Here endeth the rant.]

I did write the reply, for my own sanity, but have tucked it away in a place where I cannot impulsively press "send". I'm still breathing, still not engaging, still bracing myself for the escalation when she realizes I'm not engaging, and needs to find other ways to ensure my silence...

In the meantime, I've been working my way through an AMAZING book, which I coincidentally had bought a few weeks before this brouhaha began, and had already promised myself to dive into once Don's CD release was over (last Sunday -- and the publicist in me is saying you should check out www.donbray.ca or iTunes to buy the new album "I Am Myself").

It deals with the enabling caregiver(s)'(s) role in incest and other child sexual abuse scenarios, and some of the oh-too-common dysfunctional patterns that occur. THANK YOU, GOOD-TIMING-WITH-THE-BOOK-BUYING FAIRY!!! It's filled with lots of case studies, assessment questionnaires and self-help exercises, which are pretty freakin' illuminating and liberating and just plain awesome. (I'll share some of the info with you later, never fear. But today's blog is all about me, because narcissism runs in the family. [insert grinny thing here])

Of particular assistance in the past couple of weeks have been the chapters on the enabler's attempts to control the survivor's feelings, the enabler's emotional alienation of the survivor, the enabler's need for the survivor (and others) to believe the family is and was perfect, etc. Seriously, it's like every time I read a new chapter, the Gate-Keeper provides a real-life example for me. It's really quite refreshing to be able to say "oh yeah, that's page 32, I won't take it on, buh-bye."

Hmmm... OK, I realize I said this was going to be quick, but... You probably knew better already, right? ;-)

Yesterday was Therapy Day (yay therapy day!!!), and our therapist gave me this WONDERFUL image that I think my fellow survivors will enjoy -- and maybe others too.

She said: "You know, Alyssa, as far as navigating the emotional landscape of life goes, you are Steve Podborski, and she's still stuck trying to figure out the bunny hill. There's no way she will ever be able to do what you do -- if you go skiing together, it's going to have to be on the bunny hill."

As someone who totally sucks at skiing, it kind of makes me laugh to be compared to Steve Podborski. :-) But... yes, I'm definitely a Crazy Canuck when it comes to flinging myself onto those emotional mountains. I've worked hard, I've been brave, I've pushed myself way past my comfort zone, and the results are pretty darned obvious. And impressive. (There, I just bragged a little -- pick your jaw up off the floor.)

To stick with that metaphor, though... I don't mind skiing on the bunny hill when I have to. I understand the need to stick to the bunny hill, and don't really expect ANY of the Gate-Keepers to ever make it past the bunny hill (although it would be really awesome if some of them would even ATTEMPT the damned bunny hill some day...).

It's the land-mines they keep planting on the big-girl hills that are really starting to piss me off!!!

Sigh... well, that was a nice little vent. :-)

To end on a high note, though, I must share some SUPER-EXCITING NEWS with you all. A member of the extended family has come forward and offered to help with setting up the Katie Foundation!!! (Insert cartwheels and streamers and balloons and dancing girls here.)

I'm so thrilled, because I was just at the point of "how the hell am I going to get this all figured out???" I've got people on board who have lots of experience being on charitable boards and in organizations that deal with child and sexual abuse, but none of them have had experience in getting a charitable organization started from scratch -- and, as you may remember, the man who had been going to help me out with that died last year, 24 hours before it all became possible. But this guy has tons of experience doing this for many organizations, and really wants to help. I was also told that my Honourary Dad would be happy to do the legal stuff, as long as we get it together before he retires (I work well with deadlines).

So... YAY TO HELPING HANDS!!!

Yes, it's been an icky couple of weeks, but I have received so much loving support from so many people, and sometimes from the most unexpected of places. Thank you, everyone. Yes, the Gate-Keepers may still be able to temporarily trigger me into oblivion, but you folks outshine them all. It's folks like you who helped me become a survivor, and now you're helping me thrive.

So, I'm alright, I've got a great immediate support team. I probably won't be writing on here for a while again, but don't let that worry you. And if it does, just shoot a message to me directly, you won't disturb me. (Although, knowing me, I'll get a little teary that you give a crap, but those are happy tears, so don't panic.)

I am so blessed. I love you all!

In gratitude,Alyssa, aka Steve Podborski ;-)]]>
Tue, 13 Nov 2012 14:28:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/hurtling-along-the-emotional-landscape--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/hurtling-along-the-emotional-landscape--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterTruth and Consequences
"The Truth will set you free". The general gist being that this platitude isn't completely accurate: First, you have to set the truth free. Then you have to put on your helmet and defend it from all those people desperate to hide it away again. Then you finally realize that the truth is there whether or not other people choose to accept it, and you just have to do your best to keep it alive.

I am also reminded of Claudia Black's classic description of what children learn in addictive families: "Don't Talk, Don't Trust, Don't Feel". Since first writing "It Will Never Happen To Me", discussing alcoholic addiction within families, she has expanded her newest edition to include other addictive disorders within the family (including sexual), and further developed upon the various family rules and roles. While nature versus nurture can certainly be argued until the cows come home, there is a general consensus that addictive behaviours run in families. I was somewhat (but not totally) surprised to learn in my research a few weeks ago that childhood sexual abuse has also been shown to run in families. It appears the "don't talk, don't trust, don't feel" of the alcoholic family literature certainly has its place in the world of childhood sexual abuse, as well. As an adult survivor of an alcoholic and incestuous family, I would agree I was brought up with AT LEAST a double-whammy of Don't Talk, Don't Trust, Don't Feel.

So, what's with all this reminding?

Well, the frying pan of life, as my therapist would say, has just brought these two concepts back together with a resounding clash.

You see, dear friends, the inevitable has occurred: a family member discovered one of my blog posts. Not one of the (mostly same-generation, but not exclusively) family members who have already been supportive of and sympathetic to my journey. Nosireee. I mean one of the Gate-Keepers of Family Secrets.

And, as could also be easily predicted, this particular Gate-Keeper of Family Secrets is none too thrilled I left the gate open.

It began with an unexpected phone call. Jumped quickly into a monologue about how upset this person was, how unfair I was, and how I shouldn't be saying such things where other people can read them. And just as I was taking a breath to respond, the receiver on the other end was shut down and all I got was dead air.

It was the hanging up on me, hearing the click of the line going dead, that clicked everything back into place for me.

Because until I heard that click, I was fighting my way through that old "Brain Fog" that this call had triggered. The initial panic of "oh my god, I let the truth slip" that could have, several decades ago, actually brought the world crashing down around me.

There was always the face that had to go out to the public. The perfect, shining, we're-all-one-big-happy-freakin'-family face. Any crack in that would have severe consequences, many of which were in the I-don't-really-know-what-the-consequences-would-be-but-everyone-else-is-terrified-of-telling-the-truth-so-I-will-be-too variety, but many of which were also pretty concrete and real. And if you have to keep looking and acting like everything is fine-just-fine when it's really nightmarishly horrid, the cognitive dissonance is overwhelming -- hence the brain fog.

I'm still far too easily triggered in that department. Especially when in the presence (or phone line) of the Gate-Keepers.

If I have warning, I can rehearse. I can remind myself that the truth only hurts those who try to suppress it. I can remind myself that telling the truth will no longer make someone die (if it even would have then, who knows). I can remind myself that telling my story is a necessary part of the healing process, and that if the Gate-Keepers owe me ANYTHING it's a fighting chance at healing myself. I can remind myself that the Gate-Keepers will use every tool in their arsenal to fight me, but that doesn't mean I have to use their tools against myself.

Part of the brain fog is, in fact, me giving myself these reminders -- only to have the old dissociated bits of me swoop in and try their old tricks to get me to grab onto those tools; followed by more mantras and reminders about how I can now embrace all those bits of me and integrate them in, because they're a part of the truth too, yadda yadda yadda... It can be like trying to unravel an endless spiderweb, while being covered in a million spiders who are all still weaving... and then noticing you have eight legs. :-)

Part of the brain fog is also the internalization of all the Gate-Keepers' voices (probably closely related with the other dissociative tendencies, although more like super-associated field-dependent tendencies), i.e.: maybe I was remembering things wrong, maybe I was making a mountain out of a mole-hill, maybe I was just mis-interpreting... Giving everyone the benefit of the doubt except me, my own senses, memories, symptoms and aforementioned decades of therapy.

Other than the general dynamics of the brain fog, I was giving myself additional brain fog by trying to decide the best way to respond. The little-girl Me-s were all ready to tap-dance up a storm, saying "Oh I'm so sorry for letting that slip out, it must have been a crazy moment, it's not real, it's not true, I didn't really do it, that's not what I really think happened, I'll take it all back and say a thousand different wonderful things about everybody if you'll just forget this all happened and love me love me love me!" Grown up me was mad as hell that anyone would still be trying to prevent me from telling the truth, and was ready to grab a sword and go into battle. (Little me-s were kind of terrified with that concept.) The still rather neurotic side of grown-up me thought that if I could find several different ways of presenting and explaining the truth, or maybe just presenting and explaining it LOUDER, everyone would learn to accept it. Not-so-neurotic grown-up me said that was probably one of the stupidest ideas we'd ever come up with... Of course, grown up me also realized it would be a futile battle, since the Gate-Keepers of Family Secrets also tend to be Deniers-of-the-Secrets-they're-fighting-to-keep (nothing to see here, move along...), and it would probably just be yet another crazy-making activity.

So, as I was inhaling and about to offer my first "I'm sorry", still not knowing which version of me was about to win control over the remainder of the upcoming Response...

The phone line clicked.

And we all collapsed in a puddle of understanding and clarity: The Response didn't matter.

Whatever explaining, presenting or tap-dancing we did, it would never get through a dead phone line. And whether or not the Gate-Keepers have the phone to their ear or in its cradle, it's always a dead phone line.

Although, in this case, at least the person bothered to make it that obvious: It's only her thoughts and feelings that are of any importance. Mine are, apparently, not even worth sticking on the phone line to pretend to listen to.

No "hello" or "did I catch you at a bad time?" Just instantly into the Gate-Keeper's thoughts and feelings and all the reasons why I should keep my own thoughts and feelings quiet, followed by shutting down the conversation before anyone else's thoughts or feelings might enter the picture.

Had the scenario been more along the lines of "I was hurt and upset by this, what can we do to work through this?" or even "I was hurt and upset by this, what the hell do you have to say for yourself?" I would not have been left with a weekend full of triggers and nightmares and nausea and uncontrollable sobbing.

But the frying pan of life -- or the frying pan of the Gate Keepers -- has just crashed it home that I am not supposed to have thoughts or feelings of my own. I'm certainly not supposed to have thoughts or feelings that might paint the super-cheery-one-big-happy-family (or any of its members--other than myself) as even slightly dysfunctional. And put on my helmet and watch out for the frying pan if I dare think I'm going to talk about it.

I'm not supposed to have thoughts or feelings. I am the receptacle of others' thoughts and feelings. That's the rule and the role.

I don't have a story, I'm supposed to go with the official story.

Although, even in this particular Gate-Keeper's version of my story, it's a twisted-up funhouse-mirror version of my story. Remember Bush's "you're with us or you're against us"? Well, that's always held true in this family too. If you notice, let alone point out, a flaw, you're against us and hate us and are deliberately out to cause us harm. Period. Shades of grey? Uh... what's grey?

Never mind that when I *do* present something or someone in my history that has caused me harm, it's NOT a shopping list of what horrible people did to me -- I'm forever trying to make sense of it all, to see where they're coming from, to find reason, explanations. I've spent so much time bending over backwards, trying to make my abusers and their enablers into three-dimensional people instead of caricatures, searching out the paths that took them to where they were (and many still are), eschewing blame in favour of understanding and compassion.

A process they apparently can neither see, nor return to me.

As my therapist says, though, if their programming is THAT strong, some people can't make it past the filters. I could shout "I forgive you, I don't blame you, I forgive you, I don't blame you" until I'm blue in the face, and all they'd hear is I thought there was something they should be blamed for. And my throat would be sore...

How do you tell a story of survival, if you aren't allowed to mention what you survived?

I suppose I might be able to tell my story, provided it didn't involve any other characters: Once upon a time, a little girl grew up and had two abusive marriages, a string of emotional problems and spent a couple of decades in therapy because she didn't appreciate all that her shiny-happy-perfect family had given her and just wanted to make them miserable for no apparent reason. The end.

Actually, there are a number of times when that has been presented as part of the official story...

In fact, I remember another of the Gate-Keepers phoning me up to tell me what a horrible person I was when I was divorcing abusive ex-husband #2 -- he kept shouting "It's your bed, you made it, now go lie in it." (This is, apparently, supportive behaviour when someone is divorcing a man you never liked to begin with, and I was later chastised for not accepting said Gate-Keeper's loving assistance... but that's another blog altogether.) In what I still think was a pretty ballsy move, especially considering the head-space I was in at the time, I actually replied to that one -- saying something about how the bed-frame had been put together years before I was born, from the branches of a diseased family tree, and all I'd done wrong was allowed myself to be tied to the bedposts for too long, so now I wasn't going to lie in anyone's bed, I was going to invite all my friends over to my own bed to eat crackers and have bouncing pillow-fights. (It didn't go over so well, but I cannot even begin to tell you what a whoosh of relief it gave me to actually dare to talk back like that -- yes, it took me until my mid-30s, but I'd finally hit adolescence...)

There is a reason why sexual abuse runs in families -- and I don't think it's because there's a pedophile gene lurking somewhere in people's chromosomes. It's because of the culture within those families. A culture of secrecy, of out-of-control hierarchy, of playing whack-a-mole with anyone who pops their head up for a breath of truth, of finding new and devilishly ingenious ways of silencing those brazen enough to think they can exhale the truth. As I've said many times, I've dealt quite well with my father's sexual abuse. It's the culture of the family as a whole I'm still digging myself out from. This culture is what allowed the abuse to happen. Not just to me. This culture is what allowed the abuse to continue. This culture is what preserves itself, keeping everything ticking along safely for itself... like a bomb.

Don't Talk. Don't Trust. Don't Feel.

Don't Talk kind of feeds the others, though. Don't talk -- because you'll blow everyone's cover, because people won't be able to act out on their addictions if people are watching. Don't trust -- don't trust outsiders, only your shiny-happy-perfect family knows what's best for you, and if you let outsiders know the truth, you'll be in the wilds; don't talk within the family, because you don't really know who's on whose side, and if the victims talk to each other they might realize something's wrong and talk elsewhere too. Don't feel -- because as soon as you feel, you'll know something's wrong, and then you'll talk!

And yet, it's the talking, the telling your story, that opens you up to the world of healing -- that allows your story to help others heal along with you. THAT PUTS AN END TO THE ABUSE CYCLE. (No wonder talking is so feared...)

If I kept my mouth shut, and learned of someone in the younger generation going through what I and others of my generation have had to go through, I would never be able to forgive myself for staying silent.

If I kept my mouth shut, and went back to keeping this all inside, I would go insane. I would implode.

From "The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse":

Why Telling is Transformative

You move through the guilt and secrecy that keeps you isolated

You move through denial and acknowledge the truth of your abuse.

You make it possible to get understanding and help.

You get more in touch with your feelings.

You get a chance to see your experience (and yourself) through the compassionate eyes of a supporter.

You make space in relationships for the kind of intimacy that comes from honesty.

You establish yourself as a person in the present who is dealing with the abuse in her past.

You join a courageous community of women [and men: my addition] who are no longer willing to suffer in silence.

You help end child sexual abuse by breaking the silence in which it thrives.

You reclaim your voice.

You become a model for other survivors.

You (eventually) feel proud and strong.

Did you catch that 9th one? YOU HELP END CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE BY BREAKING THE SILENCE IN WHICH IT THRIVES. The very culture the Gate Keepers are trying to preserve.

Telling my story isn't just to make me feel better -- in fact, on weeks like this, it does anything BUT make me feel better, and even on good weeks, it can be a terrifying and humiliating process. But because I'm now in a safe place where I CAN speak my truth, I firmly believe it's my RESPONSIBILITY to speak my truth. Because it's not just mine. It's the truth of one in four girls or one in six boys (frankly, I think it's closer to 1 in 4 boys as well, but that, again, is another blog entry). And if this runs in families, then I DEFINITELY need to break the silence, and break the cycle, so my beloved niece and nephew and everyone else in the younger generation and generations to come DON'T HAVE TO. Enough is enough.

Today was therapy day (thank you, oh great spirit of therapy day timing!). When I described this past week's occurrences, my therapist did a quick double-check: You do know that you can't change your story just because she doesn't like it, right?

Yes, I know.

Yes, I needed the reminder from a professional. :-)

And yes, I had already received SO MANY reminders from my close friends and supporters and co-survivors. Thank you all, they were and are greatly appreciated, and kept me grounded and centred in the swirl of brain clouds and triggers. AM's immediate "Well the truth hurts but honesty and integrity is the only THE ONLY way to be!" helped slow the swirling. The other A's "She thinks this is about HER, doesn't she? She's wrong" gave me a good chuckle, and some sane grounding. And all the other reminders from so many men and women to be true and stay strong... well, they helped me to be true and stay strong. I have such a wonderful community, I am so grateful.

But now, my lovelies, I am at a loss. What the heck does staying strong look like in this instance? I feel like I'm missing an important tool in my tool box, and could use some suggestions on how to go forward.

Conversation doesn't seem possible with someone who hangs up on you before you can speak. And while SF's "She needs to hear it to heal herself" is a valid point, I don't think she's particularly interested in healing, considering how much she's fighting the idea that there's even something to heal FROM (from which to heal... yeah, I know, but the capitalization looks better that way and I'm a visual person, so tthhhphphww). Attempting to explain myself seems to be yet another exercise in futility and talking to a dead phone line. I feel, in many ways, that I should just leave it alone and not say anything, because it's just going to make things worse.

Of course, I resist the "not saying anything" part, since that's kind of like giving in to the Gate-Keepers all over again. Which is how this whole mess got started.

It's a different kind of silence, though... I guess. I'm not allowing them to shut down my truth. I'm just not expecting them to listen.

Hmmm... maybe I already answered my own question in the first paragraph, and should simply click my ruby slippers together, because I just took a long and winding journey to find the answers I had all along? :-)

OK, I'm laughing at myself now. Laughter is good.

So... I'll save myself the energy of the fight, and leave my sword and shield in the cabinet. I won't change my story just because the Gate-Keepers don't like it. I won't expect them to listen or believe or even give a crap (wouldn't THAT be the day!). I'll just keep it safe and warm and alive. And keep Me safe and warm and alive.

And the war will carry onBetween the Sword and the WandFor riches already gainedAll advance, no retreatPeel away the conceitUntil only the Truth remainsTruth remains

Ah yes, Alyssa, stop blethering on and just listen to your songs. You'd save yourself a whole lot of trouble if you just listened to yourself instead of waiting for others to do so... :-)

But thank you, as always, to you who do listen, and share your own stories. (Yes, I do realize that MY programming has just had me focusing on the minority who insist on silence, rather than sinking myself into the majority with beautiful stories to share. I'm working on it, promise!) I couldn't do it without you.

In love and gratitude and hopefully a lot less vomiting,Alyssa]]>
Mon, 05 Nov 2012 21:56:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/truth-and-consequences--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/truth-and-consequences--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterAuf Wiedersehen -- or, I'll see you in my dreams, Teil zweiI don't know if I'm just numb or in shock, but... other than an initial "woah!", that's kind of been my reaction so far. Ambivalence in the face of death seems a little strange to me, though. I've been trying to figure out what I feel, or make myself feel something other than... "woah."

There are rituals that widows and other family members and friends go through when someone dies. In part, they're to reassure, in part, they're to find a crack in that numbness to make sure you realize that yes, that person is dead and is never coming back. You wear black. People bring casseroles and say things like "so sorry for your loss" and "weren't we lucky to have them in our lives" and other such stuff. You plan the funeral, the burial or cremation, people are called. Then there's a day of ceremony and everyone eats egg salad sandwiches and cries or drinks or cries AND drinks. People know the right things to say.

Things other than "woah," which is the best I've come up with so far...

What ritual is there to mark the loss of someone who's been out of your life for almost a decade? A person you really NEEDED out of your life. A person it took two women's shelters, a bevy of lawyers, a whole lot of cash and the friendly people at Immigration Canada to get out of your life? A person who, even from a continent across the ocean still stalked and harassed you until you finally learned the beauties of call display and ISP blocking? A person who was just enough of a narcissistic psychopath to believe he could charm his way back into the country a mere couple of years ago, sending you into a frenzy of panic and erasing your tracks (not so easy in the internet age, or when your career involves being in publicly-posted places much of the time!) and enlisting the help of friends and strangers and actually thinking of hiring a personal bodyguard for the month and hoping he didn't pull another fast one and just disappear before immigration could catch up with him again (fortunately, the border guards are well-versed in dealing with con-men with criminal records, and I didn't have to hire Bubba after all). A person who still haunts my dreams, not as much as in the beginning, when I would wake up in a cold sweat hourly, sometimes screaming, but still at least once or twice a week (no more screaming, but the cold sweat does make an appearance).

Pneumonia. Apparently he died of a bad pneumonia. Which leaves me wondering what the whole story is? Because men in their 40s don't generally die suddenly of pneumonia unless there are underlying causes. And considering that in our last year together, I lost my life savings and nearly my home up into his median cubital vein, I can think of more than a few possible underlying causes. Theories abound. Curiosity. So far, the only thing I feel is curiosity. Kind of typical for me, the needing to know the details. Knowledge is power, there is no need for fear when you have knowledge. At least that's always been my theory. Doesn't necessarily make the fear go away, though...

Oh well, at least I can now rest assured that he won't come back to kill me, as Don said in one of those people-really-aren't-sure-what-to-say-but-that-might-not-have-been-the-best-choice moments.

It is true, of course. I no longer have to live in fear of him. Not that fear is terribly swayed by logic at the best of times, mind you. Actually, part of me is still suspecting the news of his death is all some elaborate hoax, designed to get me to let my guard down, so he can come in for the final kill (excuse the pun... I think) without having to deal with Bubba or anyone else on his way.

I no longer have to fear him. I no longer have to fear him. I no longer have to fear him.

Tell that to my dreams. He was back in there last night, despite his earthly demise, manipulating and conniving and twisting my gut every which way. Pain doesn't automatically go away just because it isn't happening any more. The body and mind take their own sweet time processing it all, and don't necessarily wish to stick to your schedule, let alone logic. You can do a lot of stuff to help them along their merry way, but some things are stuck down so deep, it always takes longer than you'd hope for, especially when the injuries were overtop of open wounds overtop of semi-healed injuries overtop of barely-healed injuries...

Oh, wouldn't it be amazing if someone could take me back four decades and teach me all the stuff I know now about predators and self-care and healing??? Or go back several generations to the first fucked-up ancestor and stop that game in its tracks?

Fantasies. I'm in reality. But wow, those are some awesome fantasies...

There's the fantasy he would one day understand the error of his ways. The fantasy he'd give back what he stole. The fantasy that life would deliver up a con-artist to match his skills and take him for a ride he'd never expected. The fantasy that "friends" would stop reporting back all the times he'd refer to me as a piece of shit on social media sites (really? there's a reason I blocked him, people!!!) The fantasy that maybe those shiny happy glimpses of humanity I saw in the beginning weren't just choreographed, hope-filled illusions... I knew it would never happen, the same way I knew my father wouldn't ever have to face the consequences of his own actions. And yet, until he died, and until Nick just died, there was still that teensy bit of hope they might...

Part of me is laughing that some people will do ANYTHING to avoid the consequences of their life choices. Part of me thinks that's really sad.

But I'm not laughing, and I'm not sad. I do have a craving for egg salad sandwiches, though... perhaps something is coming around?

When I was able to get him out of my house and across the ocean, there was a smudge. There was a house "re-heating". There was a support group that met weekly. There were people trained in how to help you get over domestic abuse. People knew what to do. People knew what to say. I knew what to do and what to say.

For this, I don't have a clue.

I do know I won't be telling my mother any time soon. While I'm having trouble figuring out what to do or say or what I want other people to do or say, I'm pretty sure a "woo-hooo! he's gone!!!" is not going to be it. (As loyal readers might have figured out by now, my world is not as black-and-white a place as my mother needs it to be.)

I'm not happy he's gone. I'm happy I don't need to panic over people publishing our house concert address any more, yes, that I will definitely give you. But there's a tremendous disappointment that death was the only way to get there.

And, as my dreams were so quick to point out last night, he's no more gone for me than he has been over the last 9 years. How do you say goodbye to someone you still wish would leave you alone?

How do you mourn the loss of someone you've fought to keep out of your world?

Like it or not, he was (and is) a part of my world.

You might even say that in almost killing me, he actually saved my life. He was my final rock bottom, when I thought I had already broken through rock bottom.

In vowing to never open myself up to that again, I went through a process of healing and self-reconstruction (honestly, it was probably more like self-construction-from-total-scratch) and weeding the toxic people out of my life -- which was a process I'd begun many times before, but hadn't followed through completely. Not that I'm 100% "there" now, but holy geez, there's a reason why people who met me in the 90s didn't recognize me in the new century...

Yes, I still have nightmares and insomnia, I'm still suffering PTSD from both the Nick years and my childhood, I still take on far too much responsibility than is healthy for me, I still get caught rescuing and allowing people to dump their crap on me -- I still have a long way to go, baybee. But until those last couple of years with Nick, I had put my journey on hold again. And it wasn't until his behaviour turned a funhouse mirror on my life that I was ready to set out along that path into the deepest darkest jungle, and slay me some dragons.

So, as horrible and nightmare-inducing as life with him was, I wouldn't be as far along today, as happy as I am today, if it weren't for him. And... I can't believe these revoltingly Pollyanna-like words are coming out of me right now, but perhaps he, inadvertently, gave me the greatest gift of all. Perhaps I should be grateful.

I'm not wearing black. I'm not being inundated with casseroles. There's probably nobody on the planet who could figure out the perfect words to say to me at this time.

I'm not happy. I'm not sad. I'm really no different than I was 24 hours ago. But I am grateful.

I am grateful to finally be me. I am grateful to have found my strength. I am grateful to have found my passion. I am grateful to finally feel safe in the world. I am grateful to have learned how to refuse abusive behaviour. I am grateful to have learned how to attract love and joy into my world.

I am grateful for the lessons and the teachers who brought these gifts to me.

Yes, all of them.

And now, if you would please pass the butter, I've got an egg salad sandwich to make.

Auf Wiedersehen]]>
Thu, 04 Oct 2012 14:11:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/auf-wiedersehen-or-i-ll-see-you-in-my-dreams-teil-zwei--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/auf-wiedersehen-or-i-ll-see-you-in-my-dreams-teil-zwei--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterFilmmaker making a positive move forwardBut I just came across a film-maker who's got a "Katie Project" of her own, and I know many of you will be interested in it, hopefully some can even get involved. Based on her own history of child abuse, and her and her cousin's friendship throughout their time in the foster system, she is also trying to give voice to the voiceless, and be an example of hope for those still stuck in abusive situations.

Lydia Joiner is a thriver. Please visit her project, and support it if you can!

http://www.indiegogo.com/sunnylanemovie]]>
Wed, 18 Jul 2012 12:59:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/filmmaker-making-a-positive-move-forward--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/filmmaker-making-a-positive-move-forward--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterBlackOutSpeakOut.ca]]>
Mon, 04 Jun 2012 00:12:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/blackoutspeakout-ca--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/blackoutspeakout-ca--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterMoving forward -- Sword, meet Wand -- Welcome back, KatieMost loyal friends and followers know only the tip of the iceberg of what I went through last year. There is much that has happened which I have not been -- and never will be -- able to make public, in part out of a desire to protect the innocent and respect the privacy of loved ones, in part due to an imposed court order (ironic and blech). Suffice it to say that dealing with cancer was actually the easiest part of 2011. That may sound cold to many of you, but... trust me, I'm anything but a cold person. It was a truly gruelling year.

Yet, while the year was one of battle, it was also one of victory. And while nothing will ever bring back all that was stolen from me so long ago -- both literally and figuratively, internally and externally -- and true justice seems a ridiculously naive concept, there is no small satisfaction in seeing the end of the battle. Alive. Intact. Relatively sane. Content. Hopeful.

We had great visions of saying good-bye to 2011 and being able to just leave it all behind, celebrate our great victories and dance our way into the rose-coloured future. OK, we really knew better, but parts of our inner-child selves clung to that blissful naiveté... The end of the external battle was just the beginning of the internal one. My main partner-in-fighting-crime is now battling PTSD, I'm scraping and clamouring myself as far away from that abyss as I can. We're all exhausted, overwhelmed, waiting for this to all be truly over. Knowing that wish is probably more blissful naiveté.

There is a certain beauty in fiction, in fantasy. The hero conquers all, the dragons are slain, everybody lives happily ever after in blissful splendour. Neat and tidy with a bow and a cherry on top.

There is a greater beauty in real life. You win the battle, you take a look at what it has taught you, you deal with it, you become a stronger and wiser person, better equipped to take on the inevitable bigger dragon hiding around the next corner.

Because, let's face it, if I were stuck sitting around and eating bon-bons all day, I'd be really frikken' bored. What kind of dragon-slayer just sits back and eats bon-bons? Dragon-slayers are too busy itching to go for their next dragon.

So, yeah, I'm pretty sure none of you expected me to go the bon-bon route (wine, maybe, but not bon-bons).

2012 so far has been a year of tying up loose ends, shedding the excess, putting things in place, getting ready for the next frontier. I had great visions of all the loose ends and excess and place-putting being done by now, but... hardeharhar. That's not how it works, Lyssy. Still... while I will always have lots of stuff on my to-do list, the big and overwhelming things are finally out of the way.

I have cleared the space

It's time to take my place

Open up my youth

Stand up and be the proof

It is embarrassing to realize how long ago I wrote that song... Earlier that year, at our annual girls' night Tarot reading, I was given the Ace of Wands and the Ace of Swords. The creative spark meets the valiant sword of truth and justice. I knew exactly how it was going to play out, what I was going to do with these two energies.

I just didn't know how many years it would take.

You see, for decades I have had a dream that I wanted to make a reality. The Katie Project, named after a song I wrote in a rare 17-year-old moment of clarity. Music had saved my life, and I was going to pay it forward by using music to help save others. The Katie Project was going to use music to help my fellow survivors of childhood sexual abuse -- to give them a means to speak their truth, to reduce the stigma and taboo of the subject, to open up a dialogue and an awareness, and give people the tools they needed for self-healing.

In late 2005, I was given the means to get this project started. Or so I was told. In 2006, that means was stolen back. For two years, my original abuser's co-conspirators played a cosmic game of monkey-in-the-middle, and even when the ringleader died, it turned out systems had been put in place (one might say illegally, if one were allowed to declare such things) in perpetuity to prevent me from speaking my truth, let alone realizing my Katie dream.

What Oz and his side-twits with the greed-coloured glasses didn't realize was that I had some awesome (I hate the mis- and over-use of that word as much as you do -- these people are truly awesome) co-conspirators of my own. AND I keep impeccable records. (When you've grown up with a family of gaslighters, you learn to collect every shred of proof you can.) Really, freakingly impeccable records. People make fun of me for having two over-stuffed filing cabinets and a basement full of file boxes. Well, I get the last laugh, darlings -- never try to tell lies to or against a chick with two over-stuffed filing cabinets and a basement full of file boxes.

Battle ensued.

It would be nice to say that our side won. Let's call it a Pyrrhic victory. Let's just call it over.

I have cleared the space

It's time to take my place

Open up my youth

Stand up and be the proof

And so...

The means are back. Not just as a promise, but in my hot little hands, as Mom would say. Almost seven years later, I can finally get back to creating the Katie Project.

Yes, many of you have seen the website (www.katiefoundation.com), pathetically stating "we're still waiting for seed funding, please be patient" for seven damned years. Well, I haven't quite gotten around to fixing the website -- will do so before any "official" announcement, I promise.

But to you, my friends and followers, allow me to officially declare:

THE KATIE PROJECT IS ABOUT TO BE BORN!!!

It's been a long journey, it's been a great fight, it's taken a great deal of energy. But from now on, the energy gets to be a POSITIVE kind -- moving forward, rising out of the ashes, creating a healing, loving, caring energy for all who need it.

To all those who asked if I'd finally be sitting back and relaxing again -- nope, sorry. :-)

But this is different than those other projects I've been systematically putting aside -- this is where my passion lies. This is what my passion has been looking forward to since I was a little kid, wondering why there was nobody around to protect me, and vowing that I would never let that happen to anyone on my watch when I was a grown-up. I'm still going to be busy as hell -- probably even busier than usual -- but I can assure you, I will be happy and satisfied, and feel like I'm making a real difference in the world. I never wanted to be a victim, I refuse to identify myself as a victim. I am a Dragon-Slayer, damnit -- bring 'em on!!!

To all those who were worried I might be neglecting my creative side -- nope, don't worry. :-)

That's the beauty of it all, it's going to force me to be more creative -- and, as it seems now (explanation below), it's going to push me in creative directions I haven't attempted before. Avoided like the plague.

It's not entirely selfless, trust me. :-)

Now, the one very sad side-note to this story is: just as the battles were coming to an end and we were seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, one of the co-conspirators who had stood by our side through the battles since 1993 died unexpectedly. Not even 24 hours before the end. He was a dear old friend who had offered to help me set up the charitable foundation arm of the Katie Project when it was time. Now that he is no longer able to do so, I am searching for someone with similar expertise in creating charitable foundations -- if anyone has any suggestions, I would love to hear them!

It sounded like this could take some time, what with red tape and all, but once all the Sword's t-s are crossed and the i-s dotted, the Wand will be sparking up and lighting the way forward.

Although the Wand might be getting a head start. In part to make good on a deal I struck with all those horrible nightmares a few months ago, in part because of a conversation I was silly enough to have with a friend and strong Katie collaborator, in reference to said deal...

You see, my initial vision was to kick off the project with a collaborative CD, raising awareness, funds, etc. -- songs of truth, but also of hope and healing. That's still part of the plans.

But there's another part... a part that it seems I need to do on my own. Whether I want to or not. Because both my nightmares and my friend have vowed to kick my ass if I don't. :-)

And so... here I am... saying it out loud. There's a book I promised to write. Yes, after all these years of my mother telling me I should be a writer, I'm actually going to call myself a writer. Of course, my mother is probably not going to like this book, and will probably take back everything she said in the last 40 years about me needing to be a writer. But I'm writing a book.

It has already started. I am writing a book. I have no idea what publishing company in their right mind would ever publish a quirky dark comedy about child abuse, but neither my nightmares nor my collaborator seem to care what a publishing company would want. She's already ordered a box set for YRAP (note to board: don't fire her, she hasn't actually signed a contract, if the book sucks you don't have to buy it, I promise!) Not only that, but she's asked for a whole series of other books to be written on various subjects near and dear to the issues -- they might not all have the same humour as the original, or maybe they will, I'm not sure. But it seems they're needed. And it seems I'm writing them. Yes, it seems I'm a writer.

Happy now, mother? ;-)

So...

1. Battles are over, I can return to my normal programming

2. Normal programming is pre-empted for my life vision to be fulfilled

3. If anyone knows a good lawyer who can help with said life vision, please get in touch

4. I'm going to be spending a lot of time on a computer

5. If saying all this out loud makes me lose all that creative energy, I'm going to be really pissed

6. Zehrs had better stock up on a lot of mac & cheese and the LCBO had better stock up on Rioja -- Lyssy's gonna be needing some comfort food

7. If anyone knows someone who would like to publish a dark and twisted side-splitting comedy about child abuse, please send them my way

8. Sorry for keeping you waiting, especially Lisa (I know, I just saw there was a message from you on my cell, I promise to hit "upload" and call you back right away) -- but after the number of false starts I'd had on the Katie Project before, I wanted to make 100% sure it was going to work this time, before having to recant yet another announcement

9. I don't really have anything else to say, but really like the roundness and completeness of the number nine, so wanted to keep as much good mojo going as possible for myself, lest #5 fall into place

There you have it. I can't back out now. Even if my nightmares took pity, I know you folks won't. :-)

None of them can ever hurt you like that again, Katie. You are a frikken' Dragon Slayer. Lace up your combat boots and grab your sword. We're going in.

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Sat, 26 May 2012 19:32:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/moving-forward-sword-meet-wand-welcome-back-katie--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/moving-forward-sword-meet-wand-welcome-back-katie--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterMore music... and girly V-bits
Women & Children's Shelter of Barrie. (Earlier in the day, we were told the April 26 show has already SOLD OUT -- yippeee! A second show will tentatively take place May 15 -- check http://www.barrie.ca/Culture/Theatres/Pages/MadyCentre.aspx for confirmation.)

I'd been asked to come on board to sing a couple of songs and play cello during and between some of the scenes. The director, Mareka Martin, sent me the script and invited me to come meet the cast last night, and see if we could come up with some ideas for music.

This is all fun stuff for me. I really enjoy doing theatre work. In fact, for those of you who complain I don't toot my own horn enough -- the musical soundscape I created for Jeffrey Nisker's play "Sarah's Daughters" was nominated for a Brickenden Award (London's theatre awards) a few years ago. Toot Toot! :-) Collaborating with people in other disciplines gets my brain moving outside of its usual pathways, and it's quite fun to just let loose in a field where I don't expect myself to be particularly awesome.

A little sidebar: on my way to rehearsal, a musical colleague had called the house for me. Don told him "oh damn, you just missed her -- she's on her way to a Vagina Monologues rehearsal!", and gave him my cell phone number. The stammering when he called me on the cell was a thing of beauty: "uh, Don told me, uh... where you were... what you were... uh... the play thing you're rehearsing... uh..." and so on. I tried very hard to not let my giggles loose on him. I mean, the man's wife is a nurse, he's got three daughters -- SURELY he's had to say the word before? Vagina. Va-gi-na. Not the prettiest word in the universe, but seriously -- is it THAT scary to say?!?

Apparently so...

Anyhow, back to me. ;-)

Knowing that Mareka wanted me to open the show with a song of mine, Don challenged me a few weeks ago to write a new song. A vagina song.

Now, I love challenges, but this one is eluding me so far. And it's not that I can't find anything to say about the subject -- it's that I can't figure out a way to whittle everything I have to say into 2-1/2 minutes! I mean, even the play just scratches (don't got there...) the surface. I could approach it from sooooo many angles (I said, don't go there...) I mean, my vagina alone has had over forty years of stories, and just think of how many vaginas are out there in the world!

I mean, seriously, where to start? So much obvious stuff springs to mind, so many stories. I almost want to make it a victory song -- incest-survivor-makes-it-through-into-adulthood-survives-further-abusive-relationships-to-finally-grow-into-a-happy-healthy-sexual-being-with-a-fantastically-awesome-sex-life-with-the-love-of-her-life is a pretty awesome story, I think (though perhaps not a light-and-cheery opening to a play). There's the story about how shocked my grandmother was when my sister shouted from the bathtub "Alyssa stuck her toe in my vagina!" -- not so concerned about the apparent location of my errant toe, but scandalized that Tarah knew the word vagina. There's all the OTHER names for this part of the anatomy (some of them cute, some silly, some of them downright NASTY -- I looked it up online, which is not a good thing to do when you're eating lunch in front of the computer, just sayin'...) There's the joyous, celebratory side. There's the lonely side. There's the shameful side. There's the "power tools" side. There's the I'm-horny-as-hell-and-I'm-not-gonna-take-it-any-more side. Not to mention the medical side, and my near-death experience last year when Big Ethyl tried to make a break out of my uterus through my cervix and crawl OUT my vagina into the free world. I mean, seriously, if they made a movie about my vagina (which would be kind of a weird movie, but I'm just speaking artistically-hypothetically-metaphorically here), it would be an awkward blend of ridiculously-unrealistic-soap-opera, cheesy-uplifting-and-empowering-movie-of-the-week, gushy-romance, naughty-porno, riveting-suspense, psychological-thriller meets Cronenburg flick.

Try fitting ALL THAT into 2-1/2 minutes!!!

I'm still trying, but... fortunately, the gals last night loved my "Plan B" option. Which is good, because I still have to finish my tax return and prepare a bunch of other performances, and I don't know how much more time I can spend attempting to write light and humorous songs about vaginas.

So... the opening song is going to be a few verses of "Sasha", as it stands now. One of the women said afterwards, she thought I'd written the song about her (no, and I'm not telling who). I think most of us have either been Sasha or known Sasha at some point in our lives.

Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

Ain't it amazing what a swish of the hips can do?

'Though all the boys wanted to touch her, they were too mystified to talk

But they bragged about what they'd done with her anyway

While nobody believed each other's stories, they'd relive them each night in solitary glory

And by day, freeze like deer at the hint of her headlights

They'd hold their breath with panicked hearts

Yearning for a brush of skin as she slinked by

And just the thought of her lit them up from the inside

Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

Ain't it amazing what a flick of the wrist can do?

Though all the girls wanted to be her, we wouldn't be caught dead with her

'Cause who'd want to hang with that tramp anyway?

While nobody had met a friend of hers, we knew they must all be tres glamorous

So we scowled in her shadow, wordlessly praying for acceptance

We'd hold our breath with jealous hearts

Wishing her magic might rub off on us as she skulked by

And just a word from her lit us up from the inside

Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

Ain't it amazing what a lick of the lips can do?

Though all the men wanted to own her, they were afraid to be alone with her

But she could be their mid-life crisis any day!

Nobody ever figured out where she lived, but many dogs were walked where they thought she did

As they orbited 'round her oblivious sun

They'd hold their breath with guilty hearts

Praying for some inner strength if she swayed by

And just one glance from her lit them up from the inside

Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

Ain't it amazing what two fluttering lids will do?

Though all the women wanted to protect her, they knew she was a threat

'Cause what sort of men wouldn't prefer her to them anyway?

Nobody ever knew anything for sure, but her eyes said she'd had a lot to endure

So they all gathered 'round to shelter her flame from the wind

They'd hold their breath with conflicted hearts

Hoping they could be of help if she stopped by

And just one grateful smile lit them up from the inside

Sasha sashayed through our lives and our days, and not a soul had a clue

Ain't it amazing what a little mystery can do?

...it kind of sums up a lot of those issues -- and without even mentioning the word vagina! :-)

It's almost like I knew, six or seven years ago, that I'd be stuck writing (or rather, NOT writing) a song for the Vagina Monologues. Not only that, the director specifically asked for verses of "Breathe" to be interspersed with some scenes. How perfect is that? A song that was inspired by the birth of my niece, and all that I wished for her in life -- the first two verses are definitely childbirth-and-therefore-vagina-related, the remaining song about triumphing over hardships along your path and becoming a strong, empowered goddess of a woman. Plus I get to sing loud in that song, and I like singing loud sometimes. :-)

So... I haven't given up on writing a new song, but the pressure is off a bit. I'm sure, though, that once I actually start working seriously on my taxes, the new song will pop out of me (birth reference intentional here) as a marvellous procrastination technique.

And with that, I'm off to do my taxes!

(Hey, I used the word vagina 14 -- nope, now 15 -- times in this blog. Do you think I'll get flagged for adult content? Vagina vagina vagina vagina vagina... ;-) )

Musically and vaginally yours (but not in THAT sense, buster!)

Alyssa

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Thu, 12 Apr 2012 13:44:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/more-music-and-girly-v-bits--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/more-music-and-girly-v-bits--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterOK, back to music...One of these projects is preparing for two upcoming performances of Missa Gaia, in Orillia (April 21) and Midland (April 22) with the St. Paul's United Church choirs. It's going to be a big multi-media performance of Paul Winter's jazzy Earth Mass -- for choir, instrumental ensemble (percussion, piano, organ, guitar, bass, saxophone, cello), and a collection of wild animals.

OK, don't panic, there will be no wild animals at the show -- their performances were taped in advance. But you will hear the songs of wolves, whales, seals and birds interspersed with the live music!

There is an extensive cello solo mid-mass, called "Stained Glass Morning". The conductor, Blair Bailey dropped the score off to me last Thursday. It's a meditation, very improvisatory -- I imagine the original cellist improvised the whole thing and then notated it after the fact. I took a peek through the music and decided it wouldn't be terribly difficult to put together.

That is, until I made the quip about whether I got to be in a cello-wombat duet.

No wombat (damn!), but it turns out I DO have to play this along with a bunch of birds. (Probably more musical than wombats...) First is a 40-second recording of a musical wren. Then a 19-second recording of a woodthrush. Then a 1-minute-and-10-seconds recording of a dawn chorus of birds.

Nowhere in the score does it indicate how I'm supposed to interact with the recording -- i.e., where I should be in the piece by the time the birds do their best to drown me out. Listening to the soundtrack isn't helping me, as the piece the cellist plays is very different from what he wrote down in the score. So... I'm gonna do it my way! :-)

The opening in the score has me playing around on a bunch of high harmonics. I figure that'll be me and the wren. Not a clue about the woodthrush, though... it's a pretty quick tape. Maybe that'll be my cue to start the improv. The harmonics come back -- with a vengeance -- at about the half-way point, so I figure that's when the morning birds can start to go crazy. Maybe they can drown out the really weird harmonics I have trouble hitting cleanly. :-) It's kind of an unusual experience, trying to figure out how to do a duet with a bunch of birds...

So, if you hear some strange whistling and squeaks and squawks coming from the music room in the coming days, it's just me, Lady Jo (the cello) and my new birdie friends.

Musically,Alyssa

P.S. -- to those of you who are going crazy waiting to hear the details about my new big-and-scary project (yes, you, Lisa!) -- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drag it on like this. And trust me, I'm going crazier than you are (yeah yeah, I know it's not difficult...). Things that were supposed to be in place before I could safely make the announcement are still dragging their sorry arses. Working on it! Hopefully by the end of the month, at the VERY latest. With any luck, before the YRAPGala next weekend!]]>
Fri, 06 Apr 2012 21:01:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/ok-back-to-music--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/ok-back-to-music--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterTwo disappointments, many heroesFirst, the ridiculously-insulting sentencing of Graham James for the child sexual abuse of Theo Fleury and Todd Holt (also Greg Gilhooly, although those charges were stayed as part of James's plea bargain). Second, the excitement of the NDP leadership race and the inspiration of one Nathan Cullen.

I'll start with the latter, for I suspect (as do my regular readers, I'm sure) the former will have me going on for a while. :-)

Don and I had thought of signing up for the NDP so we could vote this weekend, but... between our usual procrastination, fuelled (or un-fuelled, I guess) by a lack of enthusiasm for any of the candidates (although I had been really impressed with Romeo Saganash, he dropped out of the race before the registration deadline), we never quite got around to it in time. Wouldn't you know it, a couple of days after the deadline had flitted by, people started sending us video clips of Nathan Cullen's speeches. Ah... if we could turn back the clock...

What a breath of fresh air this guy is! Eschewing all the cynical politics-as-usual-these-days crapola, spreading a positive message, down to earth, open to new ideas... I found myself getting excited about politics again for the first time in ages! And hopeful. Hopeful is good. Fresh, exciting, inspirational. Which of course made it look like he didn't have a chance. :-) But over the last month or so, the word was spreading, the joy was spreading, people were getting similarly engaged, and he was working his way to being one of the top contenders. Truly remarkable.

I found myself, in the last week, hoping for big surprises. Hoping that the slow and powerful surge which had brought him so far was enough to push him to the top.

I was, unfortunately, disappointed.

Cullen, however, showed no disappointment -- and well he shouldn't. He got further than anyone thought he would, introduced new issues to the membership, ran a classy campaign, and earned high, high praise and admiration from some of the party's "elite" -- most notably, the CBC News panel of Olivia Chow, Stephen Lewis and Pat Martin. As Peter Mansbridge said, he may not have won this race, but he's one to watch in the meantime, and could easily be the next leader. And he sure has the ear of the party now! Maybe that's the reason why he was reported to be the last candidate still on the dance floor at the after-party. :-)

So -- thank you, Nathan Cullen, for reviving my interest in politics, and giving many of us hope for the future. Congratulations on making it so far, and being such a huge influence and inspiration. You are making a difference, and are a big hero.

OK, that's the latter disappointment and hero.

The former one is so much more difficult...

As Graham James's own brother stated: "[Wall Street swindler Bernie] Madoff is in jail for 150 years for stealing people's money. Graham stole much more than that from his victims -- their childhoods, their lives, their dreams -- and just got a few years. To me, Bernie's crimes pale in comparison."

Agreed.

What the $&#* was Judge Carlson thinking?

Apparently, she believes he'd "been able to manage his desires because he has not reoffended since being released from jail for previous sex offences in the late-1990s" [source: CBC]

Uh... are you freaking kidding me?!? First of all, all the Canadian court system knows is that no new crimes have since been reported to the Canadian court system in the last decade -- which kind of makes sense, since he's been LIVING IN ANOTHER COUNTRY since he was released from his first sentence. And, as is shown time and time again, it usually takes several years, if not decades, for victims of childhood sexual abuse to come forward. I'm also not certain that the awareness or laws in Mexico are any better than the still-pathetic laws in Canada (I mean, seriously, if James had been growing a few pot plants, his sentence would have been longer than he got for destroying a few lives!!!)

Secondly, he's already told the Canadian court system himself that he still prefers young boys, so it doesn't really sound like he's stopped being a danger to young boys at all. And next time he leaves the country, he'll probably go to one with even more ridiculously lax laws about child abuse.

Thirdly, if you read ANY of the literature, it becomes quite clear that by the time a man has sexually assaulted this many children, there is virtually no chance of him ever being rehabilitated. He's not ever going to stop being a danger to society. Giving him a longer sentence isn't about punishment, it's about harm reduction.

The 3-1/2 year sentence he previously received had him out of jail after 18 months. This new 2-year sentence will have him back out in September.

Even if you thought there was a modicum of a chance of rehabilitation, you can't undo several decades of severely abusive behaviour with only six months of attempted rehabilitation -- and, you know what? I haven't seen any mention or evidence that he will be receiving any treatment intended for rehabilitation. (Please correct me if I'm wrong, because I would like to see a glimmer of hope that the Canadian justice system has any concept of what it's doing when it comes to cases of childhood sexual abuse.)

OK, silver lining, Lyss, find that friggin' silver lining...

Well, at least he got sentenced to SOMETHING. That's more than my father got (he never had to even make it into a courtroom, thanks to the mighty intimidation techniques of my Great-And-Powerful-Oz grandfather), and more than many kids' abusers have gotten. Baby steps.

Also heartening, the public reactions to the sentencing have been loud and angry. Even if the courts don't get it, the public is starting to wake up to the horrifying destruction of lives that childhood sexual abuse brings. Big steps.

And a bunch of rough-tough-macho-superstar hockey players have had the strength and bravery to come forward as victims, thus making it easier for the young kids of today to admit and acknowledge their own abuse (anecdotally, my various contacts in the field have noted a surge in disclosures by males in the last few years -- likely not because more males are being abused than they were before, rather, because more males feel it's ok to seek help). They have put a very public face on a very private crime.

I have been rather disgusted reading some of the comments below the articles (I know, I know, stop reading the comments, already!), claiming the only reason this is news is because the victims are famous.

Well, yes, it's too bad that it takes a famous person to come forward for anyone to pay attention, but GEEZ, people, don't criticize Fleury, Holt, Gilhooly, Kennedy, et al, for being famous victims. They weren't superstars when the assaults took place -- the sexual abuse hurt them just as much as it would have hurt anyone else. For crap's sake, read and listen to their victim impact statements!!!

Others (don't read the comments, Alyssa, don't read the damned comments!) criticize them for not speaking up earlier, insinuating it's some sort of publicity stunt now. Uh, SERIOUSLY?!? It's not like they decided as kids to let themselves be assaulted and raped so they could become famous for the abuse a few decades later. Do you people even have two brain cells to spark together? And if you aren't taking them seriously now that they've proven their credibility in court, why the hell do you think they'd have been brave enough to come forward when they were teenagers?!?

I sooo have to stop reading the comments.

These asinine comments, and the judge's ridiculous-excuse-for-a-rational-sentence are all further examples of how people's reaction to the abuse is often harder to get over than the initial abuse. Maybe because these asinine reactions don't ever stop, and can nail you in the gut when you least expect it.

As I've said before, I've managed to get myself to a point where I've "gotten over" my father's abuse -- it wasn't easy, it wasn't quick, it certainly isn't complete, if my damned dreams are any indication, but I've been able to move past it, and get on with my life. I've even managed to find some compassion for the man, which I have to say, I find pretty impressive. :-)

Without making excuses for their choices or behaviours, the statistics indicate that the vast majority of pedophiles were sexually abused themselves. It is becoming more and more apparent that the "game changer" of who goes on to be abusive as an adult depends in great part on the reactions and support network they have upon disclosure. I do not know for sure what happened to my father. I have a theory, cobbled together from what little evidence has been allowed to slip through the cracks of my heavily-fortified-firewall family members, but I will never know for sure. I do know for sure that he wouldn't have had much of a support network, even if he had ever chosen to disclose (again, not a clue). Needless to say, I do know he was right-royally messed up, definitely treated abusively, though not necessarily sexually, with perhaps some mental health issues that went undiagnosed -- how many healthy people see giant coke bottles chasing them home? I think it's safe to say that, on a messed-up scale of one to ten, he was a twelve.

Which does not make what he did to me acceptable, but it does make it understandable. I'm still angry that he chose to continue the pattern instead of seek help, but I can also see how his parents (his father, anyhow) would have fought him every step of the way, even if he had sought help. It sucks, and I'm still angry as hell at him and what he did to me, but I can no longer hate him, or wish him harm. (OK, I kind of hope there's an afterlife, so that some of the good dead relatives will spend the rest of eternity kicking his ass, but... only until he gets the message and repents.)

The people I have way more trouble forgiving are the ones who *didn't* see coke bottles chasing them home. The ones who had all their wits together, saw what was going on and didn't do anything. The ones who helped cover it up and deflect the blame to an eight-year-old. The ones who wouldn't help me upon disclosure, but did enlist me to protect my younger sister -- yes, the grown-ups wouldn't protect either of us, but it was this child's responsibility. The paediatrician who diagnosed me with V.D. (the same one my father had), and thought I must have caught it in the highly-chlorinated swimming pool (even though my sister and I took baths together in non-chlorinated water and she didn't have a thing) -- I can only assume it's because people in the 70s thought child abuse only happened on the wrong side of the tracks, so they weren't looking for it in fairly affluent and powerful family. The ones who handed me self-help book after self-help book so I'd stop being "so moody." The church leaders who had counselled me, but completely lost their memories when my grandfather started donating big-ticket items to the parish. The people who insist that my childhood must not have been so bad, because I never ran away to become a crack whore.

OK, I don't think crack existed back then, but you get the point...

Disclosure, even as an adult, even decades later, is difficult. You open yourself up, make yourself vulnerable to a whole new level of abuse, while having to re-live the abuse of the past.

Yes, Fleury and Holt and Gilhooly and Kennedy and the others are receiving, for the most part, praise for their bravery in coming forward. But I'll let you in on a little secret: one abusive comment can render the other one-thousand useless. Because those abusive comments are exactly what keeps people silent in the first place.

You don't need to blame the victim, the victim is still blaming him- or herself just fine, thank you very much. Even those who have done as much of the grunt work as I've done will still catch ourselves thinking "oh, if only I'd thought of talking to... or saying... or doing... or..." on a regular basis. If only we'd been super-heroes, we could have protected ourselves -- why didn't we try harder to fly or be made of teflon?

We don't need a judge to put our abusers away for a mere six months in order to get the message that the damage done to us wasn't really that big a deal. We get and give ourselves that message every day.

It would be very easy for these men to now shuffle off and disappear behind the scenes, never to speak of this again, never to open themselves up to such abusive comments or ridicule or shame.

But they're NOT.

Each of them is continuing to speak up, to push for change -- not for themselves, not as a P.R. stunt, but to make sure that this stops happening to the kids of the future. Some of them have started foundations, some of them are using their stature to influence politicians, some are speaking to organizations, some are just speaking.

And that's why they are heroes.

They can't change their own past, they can't undo the damage done, but they can help prevent it from happening to others. They are putting their own stories, their own pain, their own images on the line to help others.

You don't need to fly or be made of teflon to be a superhero. All you need is a will and a voice and a desire to make the world a better place.

Yes, this week had two disappointments for me. But it also reminded me that there are a lot of superheroes in this world. And for that, I am infinitely grateful.]]>
Sun, 25 Mar 2012 16:20:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/two-disappointments-many-heroes--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/two-disappointments-many-heroes--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterI survived - prove itWell, the family March Break visit wouldn't have been a problem (other than the fact that Don had to go in for more surgery mid-visit, oy!). It's really the Mom visit I'm referring to.

In fact, it had all been going quite well. Including, I must report, a very mature late-night conversation with my mother and sister (Don was in bed recovering from anaesthesia) about survival techniques and coping strategies, how nothing in life was ever just one person's fault, you could take responsibility for your own actions without taking the blame for the entire situation, etc.

As I tried to keep my mouth shut, it was actually my sister who brought up the idea that our childhood had been traumatic -- and Mom actually agreed with her. I kept my jaw off the floor, mouth still closed, taking it all in with wide-eyed wonder, waiting for the arrows to start slinging, but the arrows never came.

Sounds pretty hearteningly impressive, doesn't it? I was so very proud of this mother-I-raised, finally blossoming into maturity, away from her black-and-white ways, into seeing the bigger, open, compassionate picture. It did my heart good. I went to bed that night thinking "wow, what a turn-around", and looking forward to a new, open, honest, grown-up, compassionate relationship with the woman who gave birth to me.

Do you see where this is going?

Because I did not see where this was going...

The next night, our last night, I made the mistake of bringing up a comment I had read on a report card many years ago. The report card was from my nursery school days, but I didn't read the comment until years, probably decades later.

Yes, the poop hit the fan, not because I commented on something from our traumatic childhood, but because of a passing remark I made about a comment on my nursery school report card.

"Prove it!" was my mother's reply.

Now, to understand this comment, you first need to picture the force that would have been required to Heimlich a tennis ball out of my mother's throat and have it tear through my body and hit the opposite wall. This is the force with which "Prove it!" was (and usually is) spat out.

Secondly, you have to understand my own personal history with "Prove it!"

"Prove it!" was similarly spat out over the years any time I noticed something I wasn't supposed to, or remembered something they didn't want me to remember. It basically implied that, unless I could produce incontrovertible proof of my statement that very second, I would be reduced to the kid in the tin-foil hat who was hysterically shrieking that the sky was falling, and nothing I said from that point on would be even remotely believable.

When you're a kid whose sky IS falling, this type of rebuke is simply devastating. You make sure you only say things that can be easily proven -- although when you live with people who claim that the sky is green and the grass is blue, there's not much that IS easily proven...

This is also the reason, or at least part of the reason, why I became such a packrat. You never know when you'll need to "prove it".

While this tendency drives my husband nuts and makes for a very over-stuffed basement, it has also served me well over the years -- not just in "proving it" to the people who would like to declare me insane for believing and speaking my truth, but in keeping me centred and sure of my own sanity during the times when my family (and others) fought to convince me that black was white and up was down. In more recent years, it helped keep my abusive ex-husband from coming back into the country to stalk me again in real life (as opposed to just cyber-life -- hello, asshole, hope you're enjoying the read!), and helped me fight a legal battle against my original abusers' co-conspirator (my word against yours -- really? Here's your handwriting from 1983, sucker -- yes, I've kept everything the last 30 years, your client taught me well.).

When you've grown up with and previously married a bunch of gaslighters and crazy-makers, you learn to gather all the incontrovertible proof you can.

Sadly, on that day I read my report card from nursery school, I never considered it was something I would later need to "prove". If I had any inkling, I would have probably found a way to sneak it out of my mother's house, or at least make a copy for myself. But it really didn't seem like that big of a deal at the time.

Well, that's not completely true. It did give me an "aha!" moment, but... it didn't really seem like something anybody would freak out about a few decades later. The teacher's comment was that I was very quiet, disliked speaking up, seemed overwhelmed making decisions and in group activities, and did not mix well with other children, preferring to be by myself -- there was some concern I might be mildly autistic. I clearly remember reading this and thinking "of course I was overwhelmed, look what was going on in my life already!" And then wondering why nobody investigated this idea any closer -- if they had bothered looking into why I was terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing, or of being with other people, maybe they would have discovered what was really going on? (Of course, realistic Lyssy understands that they probably wouldn't have figured it all out, especially without "proof" or even a name for it at the time, but it's a nice fantasy every once in a while...)

Of course, Thursday night, this wasn't even the context of my mentioning the report card comment. So I still don't understand the tennis ball that got lobbed into my gut. I had quipped about it in the context of people not understanding introverts -- no danger, no blame, no icky stuff. At least I thought... Apparently, it hit some sort of unforeseen nerve, though. And I was flattened. So much so that yesterday I dug through the boxes in the basement, on the off-chance that I had stolen the report card those many years ago... no such luck.

And so, I am now stuck with trying to convince myself I'm not crazy. That I haven't just made this memory up. Which, as the "prove it" lob, is ridiculous -- I've always been referred to as "the elephant" of the family, and not because of the creases under my arse, thank you very much. I remember things. I am the walking encyclopaedia of piddly little useless facts. When people can't remember someone's name from our old church, or a birthday, or someone's favourite sweater from 1976 or where we used to store the sewing patterns or whatever, they ask me. I remember things. Perhaps it's a genetic gift, but I've also trained my brain to remember things, anything that might be needed later, for whatever stupid reason.

Why, then, do they (and I) call my memories into doubt when somebody doesn't want me to have that memory? Why do I NEED to have swiped a piece of paper from my mother's house in order to fully believe that piece of paper ever existed? Or for others to believe that I read it?

"Prove it" has haunted me since those nursery-school days of being terrified of saying the wrong thing or making myself unbelievable. I know this. And yet...

To those who need me to "prove it", the proof is probably never going to be enough, anyhow. If I had been able to produce that piece of paper the other day, I would probably then have had to prove it was original, or gotten lost in an argument over why I had taken it in the first place, thus burying the proof under a mountain of "your trust issues" (!). And who knows, maybe I didn't actually write my diaries in the 1980s, but waited until last year to forge kid-style writing and falsely age the pages to try and prove my idiotic, faulty memory...

Part of me wants to just toss away all the boxes and be done with it all. The other part knows, though, that as long as there is an older generation alive that will fight like gangbusters to cover up the truth, those boxes are there to remind me that *I'm* not the crazy one.

I was talking with my friend Ali (head of the York Region Abuse Program) a couple of weeks ago about this new project of mine (yes, Lisa, I'll let you know what it is soon!). In this discussion, we came back to the idea that the sexual abuse, while horrendous, is far easier to recover from if the child gets a positive, supportive reaction upon disclosure -- if not, the neglect and abuse of those other caregivers is often more harmful than the original abuse.

I've been "over" the sexual abuse for quite some time. I have an awesome, healthy sex life, with no strange hang-ups or fears. There is no surface or subliminal association between my adult sexuality and my childhood sexual abuse.

Oh, how I wish my brain had the same story to tell... It's STILL playing stupid brain tricks -- shutting me down, discrediting me, telling me I'm not important or worthy, keeping me quiet (well, trying!) and "in my place." Decades later, this is still a constant battle -- partially with that older generation, but mostly because I've internalized all the messages I was given way-back-when, and now tell them to myself.

I can't help but fantasize: IF ONLY there had been an adult version of Ali back then, who could have said "hey, kid, those people are nuts -- what's happened to you is awful and you deserve better."

That's all a kid needs. Someone to say "what's happened to you is awful and you deserve better."

I can't remember the statistics off the top of my head, but I'm sure Ali could quote them to you -- the kids who are told these things are (approximately) a gazillion times more likely to grow up and live minimally-neurotic, healthy lives. They don't have to fight the "brain clouds" when their crazy-makers tell them the sky is green and the grass is blue. They don't continuously hook up with abusive partners until their heads crash through to below rock bottom. They don't have to do battle with and/or keep vigilant watch against addictions and other self-abusive behaviour. They've never had to flatten themselves against the back wall of the subway platform "just in case". They don't have to question every single thought, action and motivation to make sure they're being true to themselves and not just reverting to neurotic knee-jerk patterns.

ALL IT TAKES for abused kids to grow up and lead relatively normal lives is for ONE PERSON to say "geez kid, that sucks, you deserve better."

ONE PERSON.

We all need to be that person. If we could all be that one person, Ali would have to find a new job -- what a beautiful tragedy that would be! (Sadly, doesn't look like that will happen any time soon -- her waiting lists are growing exponentially, because people are STILL trying to keep child abuse quiet. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Thank god for the Theo Fleurys and Sheldon Kennedys of this world -- true heroes for speaking up and putting a public face to this usually-silent crime.)

Be that person.

If someone discloses abuse to you, be they child or adult -- for crap's sake, LISTEN TO THEM. Believe them. Help them. Don't demand proof -- the tone of their voice, their body language, their eye language will be all the proof you need.

Listen. Believe. Help. Their future partners, basements and moving crews will thank you for it.]]>
Sun, 18 Mar 2012 17:02:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/i-survived-prove-it--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/i-survived-prove-it--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterA wee change...The more observant of you will note that I've changed the title and description of this blog. Some changes are a-coming. I'm not quite ready to unveil the full details, but...

There is a PROJECT in the works. It's big, it's scary, it will probably engulf most of my spare (?!?) time. But I need to do it. My wretched sleep and dream patterns need me to do it (yes, the nightmares are back -- they're apparently mad at me for procrastinating on this project, after we struck a deal!), and after a late-night conversation with a beloved friend, I believe it will do a whole world of good for people stuck where I was ten, twenty, thirty, fo... [shh!] years ago.

As many people have asked me since -- WHY? Why would you want to go to a high school reunion? High school is an ugly memory for many people, and I'm no exception.

And yet...

The music program at my high school was one of the few things that kept me (relatively) sane, and definitely the only thing that kept me in school. Oh sure, high school itself was the same angst-ridden, pimply-faced den-of-zero-self-esteem for me as it was for many, but... those hours when I got to hide behind my cello (and there were many) were the hours when I started to feel like I actually belonged somewhere, that I fit in with something, that I was actually OK at something.

Of course, this was all still haunted by the not-dead-yet spectre of my grandfather. Which managed to keep me from believing in myself fully, and made me doubt myself fully, while sort of thinking I might be OK... but not really.

For starters, I wasn't even supposed to go to North Toronto -- I was out of district (if I'd lived across the street I would have been in district, but the dividing line kept me out). But North Toronto had the best string program at the time, and I really wanted to be there. There was a waiting list to get in, partially determined by musical ability, based on an audition. Meanwhile, my best friend's mother -- who also wanted both of us to get in to NT, as Ali lived on the wrong side of the street, too -- did her usual "I'll fight for my children, whatever it takes" routine (oh, what a great honourary mother to have!) and went in for a private meeting with the Principal. Very soon after, Ali and I both learned we'd been accepted -- thank you, Jane!

She did let it slip later, however, that one of her tactics was to declare that I was Don Wright's granddaughter, so any music program worth its salt would be begging to have me.

Not because of me. Because of my grandfather.

So... was I in because of merit, or because of my ancestry? This question haunted me throughout both my high school and university years. The name opened many doors for me, gave me many opportunities, let me get away with missing a rehearsal or two when others were kicked out for less than 100% attendance.

I was chosen to be principal cellist of the junior orchestra in grade 9 -- was that because I was good, or because I was Don Wright's Granddaughter? I was chosen as our school's music delegate for the Ontario Student Leadership Course -- in my incredible shyness, I didn't see how I could possibly be considered a leader in anything, so assumed it was because of my grandfather. I was principal of the senior orchestra in grades 12 and 13, but always felt like a phoney, like I shouldn't be there, when there were so many other talented musicians who didn't have family pull.

I was proud of my accomplishments, but forever suspicious of them. This combined with my family's assertions that I would never be able to "make it" in the same way as he had led to some very conflicted feelings toward music, cello, me. (Fortunately, I eventually got over it -- especially once learning what a B.S. assertion it was!)

And so, I found myself waking up at 6:30 on Saturday morning (yes, really!) and heading down the highway to Toronto. I had been dithering for weeks whether I really wanted to go through with this, but... did it anyhow. I met up with a snowstorm about halfway down, and started to seriously question the decision again. Fortunately, I had made an appointment at the Sound Post for later that afternoon, otherwise I would probably have chickened out and driven right back up the highway.

There is a sick, anxious feeling I always get when I'm on the 401 and approaching the Avenue Road / Yonge Street exits. It grows as I get off the exit and drive through my old stomping grounds. People often ask me why I don't move back to Toronto (especially now that we're considering moving to a different big city) -- the truth is, that's where I spent my years of terror, and I don't like being constantly reminded of it. If I get this ill on a drive-by, how the hell would I live my life on a daily basis? There's too much horror, too much sadness, too many reminders. I don't need reminding, thank you very much, my stupid dreams are keeping me in the loop just fine.

Driving down Yonge Street, so much has changed -- the stores are different, it's more developed in some areas. But the landmarks are still there. The anxious buzzing reaches a crescendo as I pass Lytton... Craighurst... Briar Hill... St. Clements... and there are the lights for Broadway. I turn left and enter the new parking garage that was promised in the directions to the new/old school, but have yet to see the school itself.

You see, the school I went to is no longer there. They've torn down the old building and put up a new one, with condos above and storefronts on the Roehampton side, and a huge football field. I've been curious to see it, although still trepidatious.

I go to the machine, buy my ticket, head back to the car. "Alyssa!" someone shouts. It's Alan, father of one of my former classmates, and fellow cello player -- we shared a cello teacher when I was in high school, and would often commiserate on who cried the most at the last lesson. A very nice man, with a very nice family. He (re-)introduces me to his wife and sister: "you know, Don Wright's granddaughter."

Ah yes, the Great and Powerful Oz himself... my stomach does flip-flops... it's too late to run, now that I've been spotted. Breathe... breathe... smile... he doesn't mean this in a bad way, he has no idea what battles you've been through at Oz's hand, or what fresh hells have been opened up in the last six years. Breathe, breathe, smile, breathe, breathe, smile. Brace yourself, because this is probably the first reference of many -- why didn't you consider this in the snowstorm, you silly twit?

We walk as a group out of the parking garage and towards the school. I can see the north side of Broadway just fine, looking pretty much like it always had. And then... holy mother of Zeus! The school is nothing like the old building. Nothing whatsoever. The old anxiety-filled high school is gone.

I can feel my shoulders. Sort of.

After a significant journey trying to find an open door, we venture inside. Inside, it's a combination of old and new. The old Ontario Scholars plaques have been transferred to the new walls. There's a courtyard with the old bricks and arches. The old Maytime Melodies photos are on the new walls (oh lordy, there's me with braces and helmet hair -- make the lambs stop screaming!). It's kind of like a dreamworld, where the building you know is transformed into something else -- you know what it's supposed to be, but the details aren't correct. A bit surreal.

And then it's into the music room, where a few familiar faces have already gathered. Some closer to their old faces than others. :-) The old anxieties try to surface... I shouldn't be here, what if I let the truth slip out, what if somebody already knows my secrets?

Geez, Alyssa, you write and speak regularly about surviving childhood sexual abuse -- why are you suddenly afraid people will know your truth?

Right... ahem... yes. They're allowed to know things now. Not that it's really polite conversation at a high school reunion, of course, but... you don't have to freak out.

Yes, high school is an awkward time for the best of us. I was not among the best of us.

Just before grade 9 began for me, my mother had finally told my father he was not allowed to come back to the house, because she had had enough. Of course, she was still sending my sister and I for sleepovers at his new apartment, so I guess she didn't think we'd quite had enough... Many secrets still had to be kept. As well as haunting my musical life with the Toronto District School Board, my grandfather was busy trying to prove I was a liar about my father's abuse, and using his sleazy lawyer to basically try and crush us all into submission. And by October, it had become apparent that my mother was involved with her psychologist, thus introducing sexual predator #2 into our I-thought-it-was-finally-going-to-be-happy home, as well as a whole other layer of secrets to worry about -- she knew enough, apparently, to know that it was unethical for a psychologist to sleep with (and later marry) his patient, and that we shouldn't let anyone know what was going on, she just didn't know enough to not do it.

Back then, if I was in the hall talking to people, I was at risk of spilling the truth. If I was hiding behind my cello, no words had to come out. Can I tell you how very much I loved my cello in those years, despite all the self-esteem issues that came with it?!?

Ahem, back to the present.

I see my friend Debbie come in -- who never knew me in high school, but is now the head of the music department. She will be my reminder of who I am now. I will not slip back into who I was. And just to prove it, I go over and talk to the people who I used to not feel worthy enough to talk to. And hey, they talk back, and give genuine hugs. Maybe I wasn't as unworthy as I always thought I was... Oh shut up, Alyssa, you were NEVER as unworthy as you thought you were. NOBODY is as unworthy as you thought you were.

The concert organizer -- who I've never met -- comes up and tells me that I was one of the two people identified as possible principal cellist, he's sorry to let me know so late, but would I mind sharing the job? Hell no. :-) A total stranger, who probably has no idea who my grandfather was -- but even if he did, could not expect any special favours from him since he's now dead -- has just told me I'm worthy. Damn straight, I'm worthy. I feel five years of adolescent stupidity start to melt away... well, start, anyhow.

In comes David Ford, the head of music from my high school days, the man who always asked after my father and grandfather, who I spent five years smiling and trying not to spill the truth to, five years wondering if he actually saw any value in me, or if he was just trying to gain favour with Oz. He recognizes me, but fumbles for my name. Oh lord, I was obviously nothing, nobody, unworthy... Shut Up! Seeing his embarrassment and discomfort, I offer up "Alyssa Wright" -- he grins and gives me a huge bear hug. The Great and Powerful Oz is not mentioned at all. He remembers me. Me.

I remind myself that neither he nor most of the people in this room would recognize Me Today after knowing Me Then. I've had conductors from my university years not know who the heck I was decades later, after spending years sitting directly in front of them. I would hide. I would blend into walls. I would be quiet. I would do my best to NOT be noticed (and then, of course, be resentful when nobody noticed me -- oy!).

Oh sure, I'm still an introvert. But I'm an infinitely more confident introvert. With, some might argue, a pretty big mouth. :-)

The fact that I actually approached him to say hello probably threw him off more than the extra pounds, extra wrinkles, hair cut by a professional (i.e., not unevenly hacked off by me in the darkness of my mirror-less room and then gelled into submission), and lack of leggings, dark makeup and way-too-bulky men's sweaters. This is what I'm telling myself, anyhow... ;-)

I'm talking with my section-mates, realizing that there's only two of us doing music full-time. So I must be worthy, right? Duh... Oz never had much sway outside the school system (not that I was aware of that until much later), this is me. Merit and me. Hard work, merit and me.

Rehearsal begins. We get to the Medley -- a medley of several medleys from over the years. I recognize many of the arrangements, some of them my grandfather's. Oh, here we go... nope, nary a mention. Phew!

There's a cello solo. I'm ready to defer to my co-principal. Debbie, who is probably wondering where Alyssa just disappeared to, announces it's supposed to be for electric cello, and would I mind bringing mine in for the concert? The girl who never got picked for a solo is now the woman who gets picked for the solo. Worthy, worthy, worthy... oh lord, WHY am I still stuck there?

Of course, the solo is in the nose-bleed section of the cello, and I'm sight-reading -- but instead of the devastated "I suck" that would have hit me in high school, I just fake it and laugh and say I'll look at it better for next time. I'm imperfect, and that's OK. The Old Me would never believe it. It's OK to be imperfect. And even in my imperfection, heads are nodding and voices are saying it's going to kick ass in concert.

Why yes, it is. :-)

It took me a few decades, but I'm actually enjoying high school. I will brave the snow storm (and early morning alarm) next weekend too.

After rehearsal, it's a stop down to the Sound Post, where I offer up my old cello for sale. Mild (!) kick in the gut when I'm told it will probably be sold for about $5,500, minus the repairs it needs and their commission. This is the cello I bought at the end of high school -- thinking it would last me for university and then I'd get a new one, though I only replaced it last spring! -- for $8,000. I went in to debt with Oz to buy it. I scrambled and scraped my way through university, taking on extra jobs to pay Oz back as quickly as possible, but still getting "why haven't you paid it back in full yet?" letters on a regular basis. This cello was stressy. I fought this damned cello for almost 25 years. In inspecting it for sale, I learned all the reasons why it was so difficult to play, and how they'll fix it to make it playable -- yet nobody had mentioned this to me in all the years I'd spent taking it elsewhere for repairs. Lesson learned. But kind of depressing that after all that time and effort and stress, it wasn't even worth the purchase price any more... if it had ever been in the first place.

Oh well, Alyssa, it's a symbol of the past. Get rid of it. You have a beautiful new cello now that does everything you want it to. Get rid of the past.

I do. At least I hope I do. They have it for 120 days, at which point they can change their mind if it hasn't sold. Anyone want an angst- and pain-ridden cello? Real cheap... ;-)

And so, driving up University, my mind is pondering Old Me, New Me. Old Life, New Life. Old School, New School. Old Cello, New Cello. How much has changed, how much is no longer there, how much that I never could have imagined is now in my life, how much EASIER it is to be alive. University becomes Avenue Road. Oh look, there's my former shrink's office, where I spent an hour a day every day for seven years, trying to unravel the web of lies that had been the Old Me's Old Life. Coming up to where I hung out with the friends from my youth group, trying hard to be somebody else. My old primary school, where much of it all began. Two more blocks, the street to my first house. One more block, the house of hell. I'm always tempted to do a drive-by, masochist that I am, but I opt against it, choosing instead to revel in all that no longer exists, not wallow in what used to be.

Yet... since then, I've found myself fantasizing about knocking on the door.

I have just had it hammered home that my old high school no longer exists, is not the same, that I'm not the same. While the house from hell is still standing and fully intact, I'm 100% sure it's not decorated the same, and they've probably made a bunch of changes in the almost-20 years since my mother finally moved out of there, and... it's just a house. With any luck, an abuse-free house. It's tempting...

But then again, how would a normal person react if a total stranger knocked on the door and said "Hi! I was abused in this house for ten years, could you please give me a tour?" Yup, wacko, bolt the door! ;-)

There's no place like home (Thank God)You think there's no place like home?Well you can change all the names,But the characters stay the sameOh there's no place like home

[from "No Place Like Home", Alyssa Wright, 2006]

Well, as much as all the characters continue to fight for the status quo... I've changed. I've changed, and my life has changed. They can keep their status quo. I'm happy to never go back.

...when you're ready, your heart holds the toolsSo say goodbye to that road of salvationAnd the heartless, the coward and the foolOh myThe heartless, the coward and the fool

[ibid.]

You can't go back. Even if you wanted to. Everything changes. It stays the same in your mind, but only if you let it stay the same in your mind. The beautiful part of living a long life is that you can change your story.

I can stay stuck in "not-worthy-land" as long as I feel like it -- or I can choose to see that all those years of feeling unworthy forced me to work my ass off and get farther than I ever could have been if I just plodded along in a "normal" life. I can cringe at my choice of makeup application, or I can recognize that I was creating an obvious mask to go with the emotional one I needed to make it through to the end of high school and out of the damned house. And enjoy the fact that I'm confident enough to not wear ANY makeup on a regular basis these days -- what you see is what you get, this is who I am, like it or lump it.

I am no longer a helpless child or a hopeless adolescent. And those years helped me grow into the strong, capable, independent, blissfully happy and love-filled woman I am today.

I have cleared the space, it's time to take my placePrepare to speak my truth, stand up and be the proofBe the Proof...

Only the Truth remains

[from "Sword and Wand", Alyssa Wright, 2009]

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Mon, 27 Feb 2012 14:46:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/you-can-never-go-back-phew--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/you-can-never-go-back-phew--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterI'll see you in my dreamsIt's even become a joke in my dreams. Last night, I went through several of them screaming "OK, people, I KNOW this is a dream, could you just get to the point, so I could move on to some hot and steamy sex dream?"

"Sure, right this way" and I am guided through a labyrinth that decidedly does NOT lead me to a hot and steamy sex dream.

I know these rooms well, although they have been dreamily altered. My childhood home, the basement, my grandparents house, with all its secret passageways and strange rooms of bizarreness -- my old house in Cannington and my first house with my first husband even get cameos. Vomiting snakes (seriously, subconscious, could you come up with something a little LESS obvious?!?), tap-dancing, somebody hiding my cello just as I'm supposed to go on stage, getting lost on my way to familiar places -- all the usual suspects are here. It's not like I'm dreaming anything new and mind-blowing.

"I'm pretty sure I get the point, guys! Can we move on -- if I can't have the steamy stuff, at least I could have a good night's sleep?"

"You know we can't do that" says my hookah-pipe-smoking Alice-in-Wonderland caterpillar mother from the raspberry divan, watching the maggots and snakes go to work on the several-feet-deep layer of debris piled onto the mouldy carpet (ooh look, there's the pool of blood and the glass coffee table and the coin collection). Meanwhile, my Tasmanian-devil sister is spinning wildly, too fast to see anything, singing "we're all fine, fine, fine" to great applause and scolds of "why can't you be more happy and trusting and normal like her?", while bits of her body go flying off in all directions, sliced off by the fake armour surrounding the now Casa Loma hall.

Somebody's going to have to clean that up...

I'm sick of cleaning. I don't want to step in the guck (ah yes, the murky ocean where I'm afraid to put my foot down -- another regular in my subconscious's not-terribly-inventive repertoire), so with a wink to my young niece, I lift my feet up off the floor, say "see, there's a way to rise above all this" and start to float away.

"Take me with you" she begs, and climbs onto my back. Crap, she's heavy. Floating isn't working so well. But now at least we're outside. "Here," I say, "I can't get lift-off with you on my back, but maybe if we take a run down this hill and then leap off that rock over the cliff, we'll be able to make it."

Run, leap...

Well, we aren't soaring like eagles, but the landing isn't as bad as you might think. The tree trunk is mercifully soft and spongy.

"Maybe with some practise" my niece whispers.

***

Art and fear.

Art doesn't happen when you stay in your comfort zone. Art happens when you fling yourself off the cliff and figure out how to land intact and hopefully with a modicum of grace.

I know my dream-niece's point. Everything in my life the past few days has been telling me the same thing. It's time to take a running leap.

I've done it before.

People have called me "fearless" in the past -- they're dead wrong. I am an oozing pustule of fear. I just don't let it stop me. At least, not all the time.

I've done it before. Although not in this way. I do know what I have to do. I do know the format in which it's going to barf its way out of me. I know the rock. I know the cliff. I know what lies at the bottom.

Hmm... playing with colour swatches and fonts and pretty pictures? NOT WRITING, ALYSSA! Creativity, sure, but not writing.

And my body and brain know this. They've been playing along with the facade, but... they know. They're kind of happy for the excuse, actually. Because they know something big is coming. And they're happy to avoid it.

Whatever it is.

This something big has had me sleepless, irritable, weepy, crabby. It's given me nights upon nights of lucid dreams about really stupid stresses. It's woken me up at 6am (and everybody knows I don't do 6am willingly) worrying about really stupid things. It keeps throwing all these really stupid things at me, so I can't see what's behind door number two.

I don't have time for door number two. I have Don's CD cover to design, then our spring eastern tour to plan, then the Amity Trio's CD to edit, then a new financial software system to learn, then designing a collaborative site for the folk society so everyone can keep track of everything, not to mention the myriad other projects I keep throwing at myself.

None of which are probably terribly important, in the grand scheme of things. What seems to be important is the numbing, the distraction. Feeling weepy? Oh look, shiny thing!

Two hundred and sixty three "overdue" boxes in my to-do list. Must get those done. No time, no time... How much of my unrealistic self-expectation comes from avoidance?

Shhh... don't answer that.

What would happen if I weren't two years behind on everything I thought I ought to do?

Shhh... don't answer that.

What would happen if I took that moment of feeling weepy and just sat there and bawled my eyes out? What would happen if I took that moment of feeling irritable and just got really, really mad?

Shhh... don't answer that.

Oh look -- shiny thing!!!]]>
Mon, 20 Feb 2012 15:35:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/excuses-excuses--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/excuses-excuses--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterHappy Valentine's Day!On our way down to the doctor's this morning, we were listening to the CBC (as always). Today, of course, they were talking about all sorts of different love-related issues. They had a fabulous advocate from the U.S. (forget his name, sorry!) talking about the work he's been doing with politicians regarding gay marriage and equal rights, and how he was trying to make sure that kids growing up now would know that love wasn't an evil thing, no matter what the hate-filled folks try to convince you. My heart was filled.

And, of course, that's what it all boils down to -- whether equal rights or any other number of issues. Love. Love is "all you need", it's all that is ever really ours. Love is good, love is beautiful, no matter what the hate-filled folks try to do to you, if you have love in your heart, they will never succeed.

I was reminded of this song I wrote a few years ago. It never really took off -- probably because I was back to my old wordy self with this one -- but the sentiment still rings true for me. Maybe if I edit it a bit, I'll go back to it. In the meantime, a good reminder for all.

I Won't Apologize for Love

You can't always control where the waters flow, or see a wave until it starts to growAnd while I'm sorry you got lost in the undertow, I won't apologize for loveI'm sorry if fate was a little mindless, that you never learned how to give or receive kindnessThat instead you chose the path of blindnessBut I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love

I'm sorry for all that was left unspoken, for that pivotal moment that you've kept frozenAnd I'm sorry that your heart was broken, but I won't apologize for loveI'm sorry you never could appreciate all the delicacies that were heaped on your plateThat instead you chose the path of hateBut I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love

It never was a contest, don't treat it like a game Stop looking for a saviour or just someone to blame 'Cause I'll stand for all that's true, and I will not be ashamed of love love love love love

In dishing out blame, you've been a top producer, tearing old wounds we were trying to sutureWell, I'm sorry we couldn't predict the future, but I won't apologize for loveLife isn't as simple as you'd like to pretend, trying to hammer us back into our boxes againI'm sorry you chose the path of revengeBut I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love

I'm sorry that you were ill-equipped to deal with the scenes you wanted to skipWhen the characters wouldn't stay true to your script, but I won't apologize for loveI'm sorry you never let your heart run free, that you never learned the difference between love and needThat I never was the monster you wanted me to beBut I won't apologize for love, no, I won't apologize for love

It never was a contest, don't treat it like a game Stop looking for a saviour, or just someone to blame 'Cause I'll stand for all that's true, and I will not be ashamed of love love love love love

My wish for you is that you one day stop reeling, make peace with your past and live with feelingI hope you choose the path of healingAnd don't apologize for love love loveI won't apologize for love

It was my very first Mariposa Folk Festival, summer of 2006 (yes, I'm a slow learner / late bloomer / whatever). It was hot. I was walking to one of the workshop stages with my friend Jennifer Ives, carrying my cello, guitar, knapsack, big music bag and assortment of percussion; she was carrying two guitars and a bunch of other stuff, herself. We felt like big, sweaty pack horses. And then, across the field, we see Suzie Vinnick lightly flitting to her stage, with her boyfriend, James Dean, following up behind, carrying all her stuff for her, and staring adoringly.

Jen and I paused, looked at each other, and both said "I want one of those!" And then, the inevitable, "hey, there's a song in there." A few weeks later, I wrote the song -- a humorous (I hope) exploration of the unrealistic fantasies we all hold (although Suzie assures me that most of the things I wrote about are true!).

When I saw Suzie and James at the OCFF conference that fall, Suzie laughed and said she'd heard I'd written a love song for her boyfriend -- should we take this outside? ;-) I sent them the lyrics, but somehow never got around to actually playing the darned thing for them.

Suzie was up in Orillia a couple of weeks ago, for the Orillia Folk Society's January FridayFolk concert. And I once again remembered that they'd never heard the song. So when Suzie suggested that we get together and visit our mutual friend, Joe Yanuziello, this weekend, Don and I hatched our evil plan.

We spent Wednesday evening recording this song "My Own James Dean" in our music room. I did my usual cello and foot-percussion stuff, but when we were finished, I asked Don how much work he wanted to put into the song? Well, he's on recording withdrawal, now that his solo album is finished (other than the graphics, which is my department), so he was willing to go all-out. So I suggested the cheesy Andrews-sisters background vocals. We haven't had this much fun in the studio for a long time.

And so, Friday afternoon (after an unfortunate adventure with a wheel bearing), we all sat in Joe's lovely cabin, and Don presented James's song in all its "glory". I apparently have to write a song for Joe now. :-)

Curious? Listen here: https://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_12140744 (Please note, I'm leaving this song open for free streaming for the next few days -- after that, it will become a "fan exlusive". I just didn't want to force you to sign up as fans just to hear the song. I know, bad marketing -- but hopefully those of you who actually ARE fans will sign up and make it official.)

Musically -- and cheesily,Alyssa]]>
Sat, 11 Feb 2012 19:28:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/musical-blog-entry--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/musical-blog-entry--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterPractise makes... imperfectly perfectThere are several people in my world who I can pretty safely assume will verbally and emotionally abuse me if we are in the same room or telephone line together. These are the people I try to avoid being in the same room or on the same telephone line with. But... it's not always possible to avoid such things, and so, when I know I'm going to have to deal with them, I spend several hours (even several days, sometimes!) remembering their favourite triggers, rehearsing a number of different options for getting myself out of an abusive situation, practising my "lines," which I repeat to myself over and over again when actually in that room. You're right, it's not much fun, and hardly a positive relationship, but... it gets me through and out of there with minimum damage, and then I can have a nice big cry when nobody is looking. I could go in with guns-a-blazing and we'd end up with a room full of carnage. Instead, I choose to just wear some really good armour and nimbly side-step the bullets they fire my way. No bloodshed necessary.

So, while not perfect at avoiding and deflecting abuse from the usual suspects, I know I have been improving -- and I have noticed that the usual suspects are now a little more wary about starting in to the same old routine now, as well. Maybe they're learning, or maybe they're just regrouping to find better ammunition, who knows -- but I think a big part of their calming down is that they no longer get the result they were hoping for. They no longer get "power over" because 1) I really don't give a crap what they think of me anymore, 2) I'm now experienced enough to know and tell them that what they used to bully me into never ended up working, and the times I've trusted my gut always have, so I'll do it my way now, thank-you-very-much, and 3) I'm now strong enough to call a bully a bully, so if they want to save face, they'd better just STFU. :-)

I've often wondered, though, how I would fare without the fair warning and preparation -- if I didn't have my armour and dancing shoes on, would I just slip back into old habits?

I'm very happy to report: the answer is NO. No fancy equipment needed -- the training wheels are off. (Armour, dancing shoes and training wheels -- how many metaphors can I slip in here?)

It all started out peacefully, jovially -- a "Bambi meets Godzilla" moment. A group of us were sitting together, talking, laughing and joking. I made a light-hearted quip about my less-than-perfect childhood, and then BAM! One of the guys suddenly went into attack mode. I was accused of saying things I hadn't actually said, and every time I tried to correct, my sentence was interrupted with more accusations, twisting a couple of the words into the previous couple of words, and forming a whole new sentence I was attacked for supposedly saying. This person -- who never knew me in my childhood, nor has he ever asked me any questions about it -- then proceeded to tell me what my childhood had REALLY been like (hmm...), and what I *should* remember and feel about it (hmmm...)

As he was ramping up, I kept thinking: "it kind of feels like somebody is starting to juggle chainsaws in my belly... this is not good... oh wait a sec, I remember this, he's verbally abusing me! Oh look, I think I'm about to throw up some chainsaws... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1..."

It became very clear, amidst his one-sided ranting, that this was creating a very black-and-white situation for him, and that when I was saying my childhood was imperfect, he was hearing it as there was absolutely nothing good about my childhood, I thought I was perfect and everyone else was evil. And he seemed to really want, no, NEED my childhood to be 100% perfect for some reason. No shades of grey were allowed (which is weird, because this is a person usually pretty good at that sort of thing). Obviously, my comment hit some sort of trigger in him, because he's never talked to me like that before, and it snapped him from Jeckyll to Hyde (or whatever one is which) in an instant. Someone who is usually good with shades of grey and the odd balances of life suddenly needed black and white, and needed me to be the one on the opposite side (and the side seemed to change pretty constantly).

This was SUCH a familiar situation for me, and such a HUGE trigger in the past -- don't see anything wrong with anybody you love, you're with us or against us, etc. -- it would have been SO easy for me to slip into the brain-cloud of the past. But I didn't. I didn't let him pull me into the black-and-white. I didn't let him tell me what I was "really" thinking or "really" saying, or what my life was "really" like.

I deflected. Politely, firmly, I deflected. I would not take on the role he was trying to force on me. And as awful as the chainsaw-juggling was, I was kind of smiling at myself on the inside, recognizing my strength, and how far I've come.

But... once someone's started down that path, it's difficult for them to grind to a halt. He wasn't getting the result he wanted, so he escalated, telling me louder and louder who I was and what I was and how he was somehow a better expert on my life than I am. He got louder, I kept an even keel and deflected, deflected, deflected. Although I could feel the tears starting, my voice stayed quiet and calm. The piece-de-resistance came when he shouted "you're so f-ing hostile!!!" -- I laughed, looked around the room, and asked "does anyone else see the irony in that statement?"

I think that's when he started to realize that what he was doing was unacceptable. He kept trying a few more jabs, but the air was starting to leak out of his puffed-up bravado. (Or maybe it's the fact that my tears were now in the uncontrollable stage, although my voice was still miraculously stable.)

That's when I finally got a chance to tell my own story -- not that I was in any mood at that point to actually let him in to the deep dark insides of my psyche, but I was able to make it clear that he didn't have the first clue about what I was really thinking or feeling, or what my childhood was really like.

He did acknowledge that he had put words in my mouth, he did acknowledge he hadn't let me finish sentences. Baby steps... He did deny going on the attack, he did deny being aggressive, he made lots of excuses of why he was aggressive (yes, I do see the contrast between those two clauses, no, I don't think he did, at least not at that point), he did manage to sneak in a "Well, I know there's nothing I'll be able to say to convince you otherwise" statement at the end (uh, just for starters: 1. You don't know anything about my future thoughts or actions, 2. Maybe, if you want to convince me otherwise, you should use your imagination and your words and discuss it with me, but... whatever) As I said, Baby Steps!

From how, in the past, I've seen him talk to and about people, I imagine he's been brought up to believe this is an acceptable way to have a "conversation" -- so for him to acknowledge that it wasn't acceptable, and was very upsetting to me... well, not just baby steps, Big Steps!

The group went back to supportive of everyone. We all tried to work stuff out together. Everyone said they actually felt better in the aftermath, and closer to each other. Nobody had stormed off in a huff. We had reached a group understanding. We still liked each other. There was more chatting and laughing and we all parted with hugs.

The world -- and the friendship -- did not end when I put my foot down and defended my boundaries.

His world did not end when I put my foot down and defended my boundaries.

Everyone who was in that room has a better understanding of each other, despite -- or perhaps because of -- me putting my foot down and defending my boundaries.

And yes, it was awful at the time, but I'm so glad it happened. Life sent me an answer to the question I had been asking myself. Yes, I CAN do this. I can have boundaries and love at the same time. I can maintain my boundaries even when I don't have days to rehearse them. I can feel those chainsaws coming and know that it's not because there's something wrong with me, but because there's something wrong with the situation. I don't have to have a hissy fit to defend myself, I can be polite and calm and firm and consistent.

Yes, here in my 40s, I'm finally capable of the skills I should have learned by grade school. I blame my imperfect childhood. ;-)

We are ALL so perfectly imperfect. And when we're able to brush up against others' perfect imperfection, wrestle with it, and come out the other side in one piece -- that's when everyone gets a chance to grow and learn. Acknowledging your own imperfections, and the imperfections in the people you love, is actually a really good thing. Obsessing on the imperfections, not so good. But recognizing that we're all doing our best, warts and all, is the very basis of compassion -- both to those around us and to ourselves.

Don's been reading a book by Brene Brown called "The Gifts of Imperfection". A little while ago, he was very excited to read her claim that those figures in the world -- Mother Theresa, the Dalai Lama, etc. -- who we count amongst the most compassionate are also the types of people who have the strongest boundaries.

It all comes together. Embracing imperfection, having strong boundaries, being compassionate, having a good life that gives back to the world.

I may not be perfect, but I'm practising. And we're all perfectly imperfect. Life is good. :-)]]>
Tue, 07 Feb 2012 14:55:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/practise-makes-imperfectly-perfect--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/practise-makes-imperfectly-perfect--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterIdentity crisisWhich is kind of a strange place to be, really. You construct all the stories about who you are around the stories you've been given. So when you learn that the stories you've been given weren't true, what happens to your stories?

Now... anyone who knows me is already aware of just how much of my early life was based upon stories that turned out to be brilliantly-woven lies, and I've spent the latter half of my life trying to dig myself out from under all the B.S. that had been piled up on top of me. So you're probably asking yourselves now: "why is she surprised? Doesn't she do this all the time? What's the difference?"

Well, the difference is that this wasn't really a lie -- just misinformation, or misinterpretation. And the new story, the truth, is backed up by science. Genetic testing, to be exact.

You see, my mother was adopted. And while she has never particularly wished to open up the kettle of possibly-stinky fish of meeting her birth mother, not knowing anything about her ancestry or family health history has left a considerably large hole in her personal story.

It doesn't help that my mother was adopted by a Tyrannical Nutbar. (No, that's not a clinical definition, but I'm sure 9 out of 10 clinicians would agree with my diagnosis!) The Children's Aid must have been desperate for adoptive parents at the time, because I cannot see anyone honestly believing my grandmother had a nurturing bone in her body. (While I may complain about my mother's own severe lack of parenting skills, she certainly came a long way from her own upbringing, I'll give her that! Probably via her Dad, who was a very warm and caring person, but couldn't hold his own against the Tyrannical Nutbar he married, and neither divorce nor murder were legal in those days.)

So when my mother, at age four, arrived in the home of the Tyrannical Nutbar, she had to change her name, sever all ties with the foster family she adored, and was not even allowed to talk about her previous foster families. A few years later, my mother unknowingly came across her adoption papers -- Gramma ripped them out of her hands before the information could even register, and destroyed all the copies. My mother's history was permanently erased.

Fast forward to her marrying into a family of avid genealogists (and a smattering of Tyrannical Nutbars as well) who could trace all the generations back to Bonnie Prince Charlie, and she truly became the Mystery Meat. And of course everyone had their own theories of where she "must" be from. Her almond eyes, her olive-y skin, her high cheekbones -- all these became "proof" of whatever exotic tale someone felt like coming up with.

In the early '90s, once she had severed all ties with the Tyrannical Nutbar for once and for all, Mom decided to see if she could get a little more information about who she was and where she came from. There wasn't much in the records -- certainly none of the health information she really wanted -- but she did learn her mother's name, as well as her own (Carolyn Louise), that she had a younger sister still living with the mother at that time (she had actually been given up so the mother could look after the cute new baby -- charming, eh?), and they both lived with the grandmother. The father was not named, but was listed as living locally, in good health and a Native Canadian.

So... we had a tiny bit of information. Not much to go on, but... we had an area of the province and a bit of ancestry. I went and did a bunch of research on what Native populations were concentrated in the area, and searched for physical similarities. When my sister went up to NWT for a research project she was thrilled to discover that her "turtle nose", which nobody had ever been able to place, was an Inuit nose, and a beautiful one at that.

So... we must be Inuit! Silly 1940s CAS workers, they couldn't tell the difference between Innu and Inuit, obviously... We were obviously 1/4 Native, with at least 1/8 being ever so obviously Inuit. Of course, upon knowing this information, our "Native" friends saw the resemblances, took us under their wings, and shared their stories.

This discovery also started to make a number of other things clear. Like: why the Tyrannical Nutbar forbade my mother from using red crayons. After all, Gramma was also a fierce racist (she would get off the elevator when the black university professor would come on, because she didn't want him to rape her and chop her up into pieces and hide her in the trunk of her car like he'd done to that other woman -- when the police discovered it was a young white guy who did all that, she simply left out the last part of that sentence), and there was nothing she hated more than those redskins. (Other than the brownskins or yellowskins or... anyone other than United Empire Loyalists, basically.) Her freaking out over Mom's passion for horses (all those Indians ride horses, right?) and insistence that she only ride English saddle. Her unexplained joy when my hair came in curly. And my sister's came in blonde.

Our story was finally complete. We had a full story, which we were happy to share, finally, with anyone who asked.

We all build our stories -- and other people's stories -- on the stories we've been given.

Last month, Mom sent a blood sample to a company in the US that will test your DNA and give you a full report of the genetic markers present -- giving a wealth of information about health history and possibilities, as well as pinpointing your DNA history, i.e., who your ancestors are. Depending on the population, and how isolated they may or may not have been, they can trace some people back to particular villages, depending on the genetic markers found. Mom very much wanted to have a better picture of her health and what to look out for in her aging years -- but she was also hoping (or maybe I'm just projecting) to be able to pinpoint which Native population she belonged to.

Her results came yesterday morning. She was like a kid in a candy store, finally having the information she'd longed for for decades upon decades. She was so excited, this former English teacher forgot her spelling, and hurriedly typed away at me about the discoveries about her gnome history.

Gnome history?!?!? You mean genetic testing has proven we're descended from a hitherto-thought-to-be-mythical species of grumpy little people? Should I get a pointy hat? No wonder I like the colour red and goose-down pillows and get crabby when people walk across my bridge!

Oh... no... genome history. We're not Gnomes. Damn...

As it turns out, though, we're not Native North Americans, either. Not one single genetic marker to anchor us to North America, let alone a particular Native population.

So... I guess those 1940s CAS workers meant "native" as in: his parents had been born here; not as in: traceable back for many generations. Of course, one line was traceable back to the super-early settlers of Newfoundland, so perhaps the CAS workers mistook that population for Native? Who knows... maybe the birth mother wasn't sure who the father was and just took her best guess. Back to Mystery Meat (excuse the raunchy pun!).

So the cheekbones and eyes that my friends alternately swore were Nish or Innu, and the extra layer of belly fat that I blamed on my Inuit genes (they actually have an extra layer written in to their genetic code) have nothing to do with this land whatsoever. I ain't from around here.

My mother's ancestry comes almost completely from the Basques of north-central Spain and south-western France. It was a mountainous region (west end of the Pyrenees and stretching down to the coast of Biscay) and cut off from the effects of all the other migrations, so has remained fairly insular genetically. It is one of the oldest peoples of Europe -- originally pastoral in the mountainous terrain, but then they became seafaring as they ran out of space. They were among the first to reach North America, and settled mainly in Newfoundland (Port Aux Basques).

So... this doesn't explain my belly fat (damn!), but... it does explain my passion for mountains, sea, and a good Rioja (I've never met a bad Rioja -- of course, her genes also show a predilection for alcoholism, so between her and my father, I'm pretty much screwed in that department!).

And it means I have to take a fresh look at my stories. Why the heck DID the Tyrannical Nutbar forbid Mom from using red crayons? Where DOES my sister's turtle-nose come from? WTF is with this belly fat?

Where's my Rioja?

"We make up our stories by looking at cloudsAnd nobody bothers to say it out loud'Cause they don't think very much about it." - Susan Latimer]]>
Wed, 18 Jan 2012 15:43:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/identity-crisis--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/identity-crisis--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterOh, and P.S.I remembered the first three lines, and have been searching in poetry books all over the place, worried I might have made it up, but... FOUND IT!!! On a whim, while procrastinating via Google.

The poet's name is Langston Hughes, who was apparently from Missouri. The poem, as I suspected, is called "Dreams":

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

On a day when the world has gone into flash-freeze... I'm so glad I found this poem again!]]>
Wed, 18 Jan 2012 00:12:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/oh-and-p-s--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/oh-and-p-s--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterHow can I miss you when you won't go away?Round two in as many weeks of got-the-house-to-myself, as Don heads over to Gabriola (without me, waaaahhh) to do the final master of his new solo CD with our friend Graemme at Zen Mastering. (Love the name!)

It would have been nice to have a few more days before doing the happy dance. Not quite so happy. Yes, it's nice to be by myself, as always, but... I'm actually missing him this time.

Stupid Lyssy... you're not supposed to miss him.

Maybe it's just selfish -- after all, he's in the place we love, and I'm here, in the place I like a lot, but can no longer flourish in. My sister asked if he was going to look at real estate while in Victoria... no time. Which is good, because then I'd be REALLY jealous!

Feeling a tremendous urge to create, to collaborate, and so few opportunities around here. Unless you count the "this would be great exposure!" crap, which I'm about 30 years too old to be fooled by. (I have refrained from responding to an e-mail that came in last night, with that exact request... I'm trying to find a polite way to say no. Still trying...)

He's in the land of people I want to collaborate with, collaborating with one of the guys I'd like to collaborate with. Staying for two nights at The Haven, where life and people are beautiful.

And I'm feeling sorry for myself, in my Rudolph pyjamas and messy office. Having accomplished a whole bunch today, dealt with a great deal of emotional upheaval (more on that tomorrow, I just don't have the energy to explain tonight), but... still missing him.

Damn. So much for being 100% independent.

Stupid Lyssy... you're not supposed to miss him.

What happened to the happy dance? There's supposed to be a happy dance...

Over and out,Two Left Feet Lyssy]]>
Tue, 17 Jan 2012 23:45:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/how-can-i-miss-you-when-you-won-t-go-away--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/how-can-i-miss-you-when-you-won-t-go-away--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe stuff in betweenA few new faces each year, several folks I see regularly, but many who I only see at this annual event. Many song circles, a few workshops (led by DIY participants, hence the moniker), tons of community, and perhaps a tasty adult beverage or two. A wide variety of tastes, experiences and abilities, from the three full-time pros (Don, Ray Dillard and myself), to music lovers who will take any opportunity to learn something new, to "weekend warriors", to folks who just want to jam and have fun, to a small handful who just want to sit back and listen and soak it all in.

I learned and observed much this weekend. First of all, that 2011 kicked the crap out of a lot of people -- more accidents, illnesses, deaths, etc., than I've heard reported any other year. Second, that these people kicked back, and are moving forward in grace and joy. So -- a toast to the end of 2011 for all of us, and a toast to 2012 swinging us all to the opposite side of the pendulum of life (OK, maybe we should wait until my liver recovers...).

The other great thing about seeing people every year is noticing the good stuff that's changed. There were three young guys who joined us for the first time last year, and had such a good time hanging out with all us old farts that they actually came back. :-) All three of them have been a part of the Mariposa Songwriters Club, a group of young'uns under the mentorship of Aaron Howes, who has obviously been doing a fantastic job with this group. They've grown so much in the past year (I'm talking musically, they're in their 20s and past the growth-spurt stage!), gained confidence and skills and... tremendous musicality.

Last year, guitarist Chris Thompson already had the technique and the drive and the creativity, but this year, the musicality and confidence had bloomed beautifully. While still employing the zippy effects and percussive techniques, his new compositions were filled with much more lyricism and harmonic movement than flashy technical tricks. There's a new maturity there, much more than a year's worth. Aaron Mangoff, whose voice and songwriting had impressed everyone last year as well, has gained a new poise as well as confidence in his guitar playing. He and Tyler Knight were venturing much more into trying out lead parts in the jams and song circles -- and did so with such taste and sensitivity, they put some of the older-and-should-know-better folks to shame. Tyler has completely exploded into and embraced his musicality -- I was blown away by his accompaniments, but also by his songs (last year, he played mostly covers), which dug incredibly deep and pulled out some gorgeous gems.

All three have such a great sense of musicality, sensitivity (same thing, really, I'm just repeating it for those who might forget such notions), respect (ditto) poise and confidence. They're at an age where it would be easy to get stuck in the testosterone-y it's-all-about-what-I-can-do-to-impress-people mode, but they're so very obviously All About the MUSIC. They're going to go places, I'm sure. I love these guys, search them out and you'll love them too!!!

I should also mention that Tyler's creative passions are also in the realm of videographer -- he owns District Media & Design here in Orillia, and has put together some terrific videos for local musicians. This guy oozes creativity. :-) In fact, he put together a five-minute down-and-dirty video of The Brights playing with our friend Ray Dillard "backstage" at DIY: The Brights with Ray Dillard. Browse around his YouTube site, because there are a number of video projects he's done available there. Don's going to hire him to do some songs from his upcoming solo album, too.

But back to DIY.

The other people who blew me away were Noreen Sullivan and Mary Bennet (no websites, sorry). More examples of musicality at its finest! They're more in the doing-it-for-fun-but-won't-pass-up-a-gig-if-asked category, but their duo work is simply beautiful, and certainly of professional-if-they-felt-like-it quality. Their voices blend so nicely, and they've worked out some lovely arrangements. But even when you take them out of their "comfort zone" of working together, the harmonies and accompaniments they ad libbed over people's songs in the circles were just as tasteful and simply-beautifully-perfect.

Another guy to impress me -- well, he'd already impressed me, and I see him on a regular basis, but it was good to be reminded -- was Roy Hickling. His songwriting just gets better and better. Yes, he is a friend and a client, but no, he didn't pay me to say this -- and I won't be invoicing him for it, either. ;-)

What all of these people I mentioned understand and embrace is that music is not the notes -- it's the stuff in between the notes. Yes, I go on about this ad nauseam, but that's because not everyone is listening yet. :-) These people are wonderful examples of how amazing it is when the Music is there, in between all the other stuff.

My very favourite compliment -- and self-conscious, oh-please-don't-let-me-cry-now moment -- of the weekend was when Mary H. and Peter K. were talking with Ray about the workshop he was going to give on musical tension and release. Mary's eyes shone and she said "oh, that's what Alyssa's so natural at!" Peter jumped in and started talking about how it's so nice to play with me or just to listen to me accompanying others, because I know where to place the notes and when to stay out of the way. And then I turned red and tried not to cry as they waxed poetic over my sensitivity. Sure it's nice to get compliments about my technical proficiency, and be reminded I don't suck, but... THOSE are the types of compliments I ADORE. The ones that have nothing to do with the number of notes I play, but how I play them. Because the Music is not the notes. The Music is the heart in between the notes. The Music is what makes Mary's eyes light up, what touches Peter, what makes complete strangers go away from a concert and feel they've been part of something.

And this is what I saw, heard and felt in all the people who made an impression on me this weekend. The stuff between the notes. The heart, the soul, the spirit, the Music. Notes can be learned. Music has to be nurtured. And once you can let go of the notes and put in the spirit, you'll be touching people you don't even know of, and you will make them feel they've been part of something. Whether you pursue it professionally or simply for the sheer joy of it, you will be A Musician.

All-in-all, a great musical weekend. Do check out everyone's websites I mentioned -- and search around for those without links, because other people have posted videos and bios of them. These people are Musicians.]]>
Mon, 16 Jan 2012 17:43:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-stuff-in-between--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-stuff-in-between--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterDoin' the Happy DanceAlthough, this time, it's REALLY alone. One cat died mid-December, the last died Friday. Unless you count the ghost who occasionally makes an appearance in our dining room, I am really and truly alone, for the first time in... well, I guess it was January, 1993 when my first cat, Evinrude, joined me in my one-bedroom and very blue (it looked like someone had shaken a 7-11 slushie all over the walls) Kingston apartment.

So... this is the first time, in almost exactly nineteen years, that I don't have to look after another being's needs, or even take another being's needs into consideration.

My Happy Dance is getting downright ecstatic.

Not that I don't miss my husband or my cats, but... WAHOOOO!!!!!

This is what freedom feels like.

I'm not a horrible person, really I'm not. Don recognizes that the happy dance has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.

You see, I'm an introvert -- a needle-firmly-entrenched-in-the-extreme-pole-of-introversion introvert. I NEED my alone time, or I become a nervous wreck.

Not only am I an introvert, I am an emotional sponge with horrible boundaries issues. Growing up with parents who needed me to be their parent, who, it became obvious by the time I was three, would inevitably die or be sent to an institution if I didn't identify and anticipate their every need and forsake my own to satisfy theirs -- well, I've been pretty much hard-wired to know people's needs before they even know what they are. And if I'm not absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent centred (read the above paragraph about needing my alone time!), I am also hard-wired to dump my own needs and look after everyone else's.

If I'm grounded, centred and relaxed, I can sometimes catch myself before it happens. But -- as my sister-friend Ali commented last night -- the past year has not had a single lull for me. I have been in emergency-fixer-upper, problem-solver, here-let-me-look-after-that-for-you mode since October, 2010. There has been no hope of being grounded, centred or relaxed.

It wasn't so bad when Don was still working at the fire hall. Then, I knew there were seven 24-hour shifts (plus errands and driving time) every four weeks when I would have the house to myself. And yes, there are days when I regret encouraging him to follow his heart and leave the job he was no longer enjoying...

He tries, he really does try to give me my space and alone time, but... in this year-plus of total frazzlement, I don't think he completely understands that in order to give me that true space and alone-time, he has to either leave the house for an extended period of time, or hold perfectly still and silent and not breathe for an extended period of time.

This is part of the reason why we're looking for a house with either an out-building or a soundproofed basement apartment.

Because in this old house, no matter where he is, I can hear him breathing. Not to mention moving, or listening to music, or creating music, or... well, all those various things (such as respiration) that Don has to do in order to be Don.

If I'm meditating, for instance, and I hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, "man-looking" for something... my concentration is gone in a split-second, and before I can stop myself, I'm shouting out the exact location of the thing I already know he's looking for.

Pathetic, really.

My creative process requires total silence and no interruptions. Don's creative process involves spending the day noodling on the guitar and seeing what sticks. These two processes are completely incompatible. He's told me to tell him when I need him to be quiet, but... I never know when something will sneak into the silence, so the answer to "when should I be silent?" is really: always. Which, of course, is not possible or desirable. Hence the need for an out-building. And an out-building with no intercom, because another part of his creative process is the need to talk it out with me instantly. Which... again... Totally Incompatible. (I keep telling him he's got to know I love him, because otherwise I'd never tolerate living with another human being!!!)

A few years ago, when I was playing an extended run in Prince Edward County, I was offered an apartment for a weekend, to get away from my friendly yet multitudinous billet hosts. The woman who owned it had her own house, but kept this apartment as a personal getaway.

I have been fantasizing about having such an apartment ever since.

Because, much as I try, much as Don tries... remember that television ad that said "the years before five last the rest of their lives"? They weren't just whistlin' Dixie, people!!! Hard-wired is hard-wired. It may be possible to short-circuit every once in a while, and continue to work on tricks to overcome my hard-wiring, but... I don't think I'm ever going to be able to get rid of it completely, let alone to a point where I can stop keeping a vigilant eye out for my own knee-jerk.

Apartment, out-building, panic room... I'm afraid at least one of these is necessary, especially in such busy years. Or, perhaps, some really good earplugs. :-)

In the meantime, though, I'm going to happy-dance my way through four days and three nights of silent, solitary bliss. Don't even think about calling me to make sure I'm not lonely! I ain't gonna answer. :-)]]>
Tue, 10 Jan 2012 16:15:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/doin-the-happy-dance--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/doin-the-happy-dance--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterHappy New Year!

I know, I know, relish the time you have, but... honestly, I didn't have TIME to relish the time I had in 2011. The year of chaos. Yes, much of the chaos was good chaos, but I'd be happy for a little bit of calm. Maybe even a lot of a bit of calm. :-)

New Year's Resolutions?

I'm going to do my best to have more than just coffee for breakfast. And I'm going to try to remember to brush my teeth before I go to bed.

Yup, that's it. And it's kind of pathetic that I have to actually make resolutions about those two things, but... such has become my (lack of) habit. Looking after myself has once again fallen by the wayside.

Eating breakfast and brushing my teeth are as big a promise as I'm going to allow myself to make. Because the overarching big promise it to not expect so much of myself -- to not continuously set myself up for failure.

I thought I had figured this out last year when I promised to set myself only three goals per day. Three ought to be manageable, right? Well, they would be, if I picked reasonable goals. My three daily chores tended to be more along the lines of "establish world peace" and "save the planet from environmental destruction" and "write a Pulitzer-prize-winning novel." Which would leave me angry with myself at the end of each day, for failing to accomplish three simple tasks in a day...

Eating breakfast and brushing my teeth. Easier to accomplish in a day.

Yes, looking after myself -- Extreme Self Care -- seems to be part of my resolutions every year. This year, it isn't even that extreme, though! Even the basics have flown out the window, with all that was happening in 2011.

OK, bonus resolution: I'm going to try and look decent in a bathing suit by May. That is when my sister and I take our families to the BVIs to celebrate having survived all there was to survive in 2011.

There was so much unknown last year, so many last-minute changes of plans, so many last-minute emergencies... it feels very strange to be able to plan ahead for a vacation. Five whole months in advance. It's been a long time since we've been able to do that. Heck, we missed celebrating our first anniversary, because family drama and cancer kept us from making any plans. (We will make up for that this year!)

2011 began with a cancer scare (mine), was taken up with a cancer reality (Don's) and ended up with a cancer death (our littlest cat, Tough Cookie). In the middle of all this were the final touches of a five-year battle against an evil little man who has spent the last several decades causing us great harm -- which of course has led to emotional regurgitation of the last several decades, and trying to put old hurts to bed one final time. We had to cancel a tour with our friends Heather and Ben, because court and hospital appointments shifted around like acid-crazed silverfish, and we didn't know which end was up for months at a time. We didn't know if we'd be able to keep our house, we didn't know how to keep our careers going with all the cancellations, we didn't know if keeping commitments would cost Don his life or if cancelling our commitments would cost us our future.

It was a whole year of not knowing. Of waiting for other people or circumstances to decide what we would do any given day. Of trying to trust our guts when we were having trouble keeping our guts still. Of not making any plans. Of not daring to dream about the future because we didn't know whether we'd have one.

And yet, in the middle of all this -- there were some pretty amazing adventures! Perhaps it was the threat of death that made us leap where before we would have hesitated. But man, we sure leaped!

I played in concert with Victor freaking Wooten (and he called ME a virtuoso!). We both played in concert and wrote a song with Eric Bibb. Don recorded a kick-ass solo CD (just waiting for final mix & master). He met a long-lost cousin he never knew existed, until they ended up playing a duet together. We did our first tour to BC and a second one including the other western provinces, and met some incredible new people -- many of whom are going to be close friends for a very long time. We fought many dragons, confronted many demons. Out of all the chaos, we were forced to face what we no longer had time for in our lives, and focus more clearly on what we did want in our lives.

And here we are in 2012, with all the chaos of 2011 behind us. We are planning a vacation. We are planning our anniversary. We are planning how best to pursue all that we want and need from our lives.

First: calm, rest, quiet. Then: eat breakfast, brush teeth. This will, in all likelihood, be followed by chaos. But it will be chaos of our own choosing. Changes are coming. We're no longer living under affect of our lives. We are living our lives. Making decisions. Some of them are pretty huge. And chaotic. And pretty darned exciting.

Hello, 2012. It's great to meet you. So long and good riddance, 2011 -- but thank you so much for all you taught us.

Kind of like how I've lived my life. These are you confines, this is how you need to live. This is your budget, these are the number of hours in the day (OK, those are the confines I still tend to ignore...), these are the resources at hand. Fit the jigsaw pieces together and deal with it.

If I'm just dealing with it, I'm not really having to make a choice. It's kind of easy that way. Survival skills 101. I'm really awesome at survival. Crisis, chaos, conflict -- my forte.

Choice... not so much.

Here I am, well into month two of the time I allotted for figuring out what I wanna be when I grow up... and I'm still looking at barriers, figuring out how to navigate them. Reacting to "reality" while making my "choices".

How many of those barriers are actual barriers, and how many of them are me trying to avoid making real choices?

How many choices am I making based on other people's parameters, or what I think my choices "should" be?

Under the guise of dreaming big, Don and I have been perusing the real estate listings for our dream home. Some of the obvious things we want are a space big enough to hold house concerts, separate areas (be that an out-building or a nanny suite) for us to make music in without getting in each other's way. Actually, those are really the only "have-to"-s. We also tend to prefer the "character houses" to the newer homes, and will never, ever put ourselves in a gated community or next to a golf course. Would LOVE to be in walking / biking distance of downtown and the waterfront.

With these criteria, we've been dreaming. And we've fallen in love with one house that's WAYYYYY over our price range. We actually saw it when we were in Victoria in September. I guess it's kind of like brides and the first wedding dress they try on... It is a gorgeous house, and if it were anywhere within our price range, I'm sure we'd have bought it in September.

But, here's the thing -- it's about 50% more expensive than some of the other perfect houses that meet our criteria. Reason being, of course, it's all newly renovated with marble countertops and top-of-the-line fixtures and stuff.

Which... has never really impressed us before.

Yes, the layout impresses us -- big-time. But... are we going for the glitz because we think we have to have glitz in order to dream big?

I mean, seriously, anyone who has been to our house knows that those marble counter-tops would be covered with piles of "to-do" papers in no time, and never be seen again. :-)

Not realistic in any stretch of the word. So... am I chastising myself for liking this house because it's totally impractical, or am I chastising myself for liking this house because I'm dreaming too big, or am I chastising myself because I just really like chastising myself? And why don't I chastise myself about that for a while, while I'm at it? ;-)

Of course, Practical Lyssy has found a bunch of similarly-laid-out homes in comparable areas for about half a million less than the Gorgeous Yellow House. They even have more floor space. No silly marble countertops.

When we were walking through the Gorgeous Yellow House, a man who'd noticed our Ontario plates pulled us aside and told us the house was far over-priced. Which might explain why it's still on the market, three months later -- and they've brought the asking price down a bit. Who knows, maybe by the time we're ready to take the plunge, they'll have realized the error of their ways and we'll get the Gorgeous Yellow House for a Practical-Lyssy-friendly price?

Or maybe there's another place that's just perfect, that will present itself when the timing is right.

I need to shut up my lizard brain. Face the blank page. Paint my dream home and dream life. And get ready to dive in. I won't know what fate has brought me, or when to dive in, until I can paint the dream.

Hand me my paintbrush, please!]]>
Tue, 06 Dec 2011 13:40:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-blank-canvass--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-blank-canvass--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterNot settling
Amity Trio concert yesterday, coupled with an article in Strings on forming an ensemble, combined, perhaps, with many of the thoughts that have been flitting through my dearly beloved's and my heads over what we want to be when we grow up (!) all seem to be coming back to the same place.

Don't settle.

The trio's "Gift of Music" concert yesterday was our second performance for this series, the first being two seasons ago. As I mentioned in our introduction, we were excited to be able to introduce the audience to a new member of the trio, and a new cello. Both certainly worked their magic -- those who had been at both concerts made a point of saying so.

For years -- oh geez, decades! -- I let myself be stuck with an instrument I was fighting, that wouldn't do what I wanted, that made me sound far crappier than I actually am. :-) And then, I finally allowed myself to invest in the proper tool for my career. And whooosh! All those things I was fighting were instantly easier. "Lady Jo" responds to my wishes with grace and passion, whereas "The Old Clunker" (the more polite name) would have made me fight for it -- and probably still not given it to me.

Similarly with the trio, which has had trouble with pianists from the beginning. When I joined the group, the pianist was a very good player, able to sight-read pretty much anything -- but that's also pretty much all he did. Any musical decisions discussed were forgotten by the following week, as he sight-read his way through the piece for the hundredth time. He got all the notes just fine, but there wasn't any life in the music -- add to that our uncertainty whether he would show up for any given date, and you can see it wasn't the most ideal circumstance. The trio's next pianist was really jumping off the deep end -- and good for her for giving it a whirl. But without the background or the experience or the technical facility, she was really just turning herself into a giant ball of stress. Rehearsals had become extended argument sessions, the music was unsatisfying, the concerts frustrating. And, as with any long-term relationship, it was really hard to get to the point where we all could say so. It was a relief for all three of us when it was finally said.

Fast-forward to the new trio, where the pianist has equal -- arguably, better -- technique, background and experience to the rest of us. Which means the rehearsals are now dedicated to the making music part, instead of the tension and fighting and hoping we make it to the end of the piece in one piece. It's a real ensemble, not three people pulling in opposite directions. We can make music, not notes, knowing the music won't end in tears or resentment. And what a relief! We can actually PLAY music, not just worry if we'll get to the end in one piece.

It's what this is all about, really. (Oh yeah, and the whopping big salary -- ha ha ha ha ha.)

And so... here we are with the-rest-of-life. A year of cancer scare and cancer reality, family drama, family victory, end-of-an-era (or seven) and tabula rasa (or, sort-of-rasa) leads us to: what now? What have we been settling for, when we know we want or need something better? What would our biggest fantasy life be? How can we make it happen? What's holding us back? How do we shed that skin and face the world anew?

Planning ahead, making long-term plans or goals does not come naturally for either one of us. We both learned at a young age not to hold out hope, because we'd be brutally disappointed. Not to expect that the world would reward us for our hard work, just pull the carpet out from under us as we got to the finish line (yes, spectacularly mixed metaphor -- I apologize). Not to dream, let alone dream big.

Don often gazes at me, dewy-eyed and says "what happens now that all my wishes have come true?" Well... make bigger and better wishes, I guess. :-)

We're actually planning our July anniversary. We missed the first one, because the way life was working at that point, we didn't feel comfortable planning ahead. Those complications are gone, now. We're planning ahead. Over seven months ahead. I seriously believe it's the first time we've made any concrete plans more than three months in advance. Baby steps...

What would happen if all my dreams came true? Well... I won't know unless I figure out what those dreams are!

We've pinpointed a number of "settled-for-s". Now we have to figure out the "dream-of-s". Then we have to figure out how to make them happen.

We're dreaming.]]>
Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:53:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/not-settling--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/not-settling--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterHappy Birthday, Baby Narcissist
"It's My F---ing Birthday", a series of "state of the union" addresses the thirty-something and then forty-something main character gives herself on seven subsequent birthdays. Upon visiting the author, Merrill Markoe's, website, I am amused / perplexed to read that one of her main objectives with this novel was to examine the tricky business of having narcissistic parents. Was my sister aware of this? Is this an acknowledgement that she's finally in on the joke? Or was she just so enamoured with the title she was oblivious to the content?

Regardless of my sister's motivation, I was intrigued by the character's annual entries (I've only made it to her 38th birthday, so don't spoil the ending for me if you've already read it, please!), which she concludes with answering the questions: "what did I learn this year?" and "what do I want to learn next year?". It seemed like a good set of questions to ask myself on the auspicious occasion of my 41st birthday.

A good set of questions which I managed to totally avoid by answering "happy birthday" emails and FaceBook wall posts all day, and celebrating with great food and wine and single malt and midnight naughty activities [sorry Mom, but I figured I'd lost you in the first paragraph, anyhow...] with my incredible husband.

Couple this with my friend Louise's recent blog entry, "What do I fear?", which I have been studiously avoiding for over a week while fighting the gnawing feeling I must respond with my own answer to the question and... well, the stars are apparently aligning and trying to shake or stab some of that truth-I-hold-so-dear into my consciousness.

Because my first answer to the question was: nothing much, really. There's so much I used to be afraid of -- speaking the truth, being alone, being imperfect, falling on my face, not being loved -- that I've done and survived with flying colours, so am no longer afraid. I lived my first three-plus decades in such all-consuming fear that I truly feel fear-free now. Of course, I was afraid with Don's cancer diagnosis, but I also knew I could handle whatever had to be done, because I'm really freaking awesome in a crisis. Pathologically awesome in a crisis. I sometimes catch myself trying to create a crisis so I can remind myself just how freaking awesome I am.

I'm not afraid of spiders. I'm not afraid of being alone -- and Don has learned to not take it personally when I do the "I've got the house to myself" happy dance. I'm not afraid of being unloved, because the people who threaten me with that are the people who aren't capable of loving in the first place. I'm not afraid of speaking the truth -- some people wish I were, but I'm not, sorry! (not really...) I'm not afraid of screwing up, because that's how you learn new things. I live a free and open and fear-proof life, trusting my gut and going for it.

Er... Alyssa... um... [tap tap tap]...

If you're not afraid of anything, could you please explain some of your neurotic, knee-jerk reactions?

Because SOMETHING has to be scaring you into all that crap. You know, the having to say "yes" to everything and take responsibility for stuff you don't really want to do, at your own expense? The fact that, even when people aren't asking you to do stuff, you're finding a whole pile of stuff to do anyhow? The fact that you became Little Miss Cranky Pants after a Saturday of jammies and cheesy television? And practically had a nervous breakdown when your husband said he didn't need you to take care of the pile of stuff on the stairs in order for him to love you?

Yes, I'm obviously riddled with fear and guilt and all that ugly stuff when I'm not DOING something. But... maybe it's just a silly residue...? Maybe...? Because my brain and heart KNOW I'm still loveable if I'm in my jammies watching cheesy tv. And my home is no longer in a place where if I don't keep everything together, the world is going to blow into smithereens (and, if it had blown into smithereens in those early years, it might have actually been a good thing). Nobody is going to kill themselves if I don't put their needs before my own. I know my future doesn't live or die on whether my desk is clear. And I've even learned, after the seven years when I upped the ante from living with narcissists to living with a sociopath, that the world doesn't explode if you don't pay the credit card bill on time (although, it's much easier if you do, trust me!) All of the reasons I used to have for this obsessive-compulsive workaholic behaviour are gone gone gone. I know they're gone.

And yet... while I have been working hard at saying "no" the last couple of months, and started weeding out the things I don't actually have a passion for, it's been like ripping out my entire body's arterial system through my eyeballs.

Taking that jammies-and-cheesy-television day on Saturday turned me into Medusa-on-acid for Sunday and Monday.

I'm not SUPPOSED to relax. I'm not SUPPOSED to take a day off. I'm not SUPPOSED to look after myself.

Why the hell not?!?!?

And here, we get back to what the universe has been screaming at me this week. I am TERRIFIED of becoming a narcissist. (She writes, in a blog, that she thinks people want to read... oh shut up, Alyssa!)

I come from a long line, really. It's my birthright. I was raised (or not) by two thoroughly messed-up narcissistic individuals who should never have procreated. It's not their fault, I don't blame them -- hell, I've met THEIR parents, and am thoroughly amazed that ANYONE in this family has managed to make it to adulthood (their bodies, at least -- there's still many whose emotional IQs have yet to catch up... or even start the race, in some cases). My parents really didn't have much of a chance at being good parents, because their parents were serious control-freak nut-jobs. In the last several years, I've had the opportunity to learn more than any person should about their grandparents, and let me tell you I am no longer in the least bit surprised that my father saw giant coke-bottles chasing him home from school, nor that my mother knew about this yet still thought "oh, there's an awesome father for my unborn children!"

They were messed up. Their parents seriously messed them up. Their parents were so freaking incompetent, that both of them were grasping and gulping for whatever care and parenting they could get from whoever was the closest at hand. And on November 29, 1970, I became the closest person at hand. I remember my mom once telling me she wanted to have a baby so she would finally understand unconditional love. It sounded kind of sweet at the time... now I know how destructive a motivation that was. From the very beginning, it was my job to parent my parents. 2-1/2 years later, it was my job to also parent my little sister. And with an alcoholic pedophile father and a prescription-pill-popping suicidal mother who had zero parenting skills and more than anyone's fair share of mommy and daddy issues of their own, it was a lot of work. A LOT of work.

If I weren't 100% on top of things back then, the world WOULD have exploded. No sick days, no mental health days (hardeeharhar), no days off, no nights off. My needs were absolutely nothing compared to the immense ocean of needs of my parents, and the need to keep the "one big happy family" facade intact for the outside world. The grandparents would not accept an ounce of imperfection, and they were mean and vindictive bastards. I had to keep it together.

My parents were narcissists. Not by choice, but by design. They never had their childhood needs met, so they had to find a way to make it happen later in life. This is why I hate vampire movies. Once you're bit / damaged, you have no choice but to instil the same harm on others. It sucks. Hardeeharhar...

One of the biggest reasons -- well, THE biggest reason -- why I chose to not have children myself was because I know I, too, had really awful parenting, and there was no way I wanted my subconscious to subject a poor little offspring of mine to make up for my parents' lack of parenting. I did not want to burden a child with providing me with unconditional love. I did not want a child to grow up to believe his or her sole purpose was to make up for what I had missed.

I did not want to be a narcissist-by-design.

And so, here I am, childless. Solves the whole problem, right?

Har-de-har-har-har...

OK, yes, it does solve the problem for those unborn children of mine, who are probably hanging out in the place where little baby spirits wait for a body to inhabit, and thanking me profusely for not giving in to the societal pressure to cause 2.1 of them a lifetime of therapy.

My part of the equation, however, is still fully intact, and ruling with a vengeance.

I spent a decade of four-days-a-week-flat-on-my-back sessions working on de-dissociating myself. I thought I'd gotten them all. But there is obviously one little piece of me tucked away so very well... and I'm still working hard at keeping her down there.

As Medusa-on-acid will attest, I am still playing whack-a-mole with my inner Narcissist.

If there's even a hint of her, saying she might deserve something good? WHACK!!!

For years, Don's been making fun of my total inability to accept help. I've explained it away by citing my fiercely independent streak. Nobody looked after me before, why should anyone look after me now? I can take care of myself. Besides, the minute you accept help from someone, they're only going to let you down by failing to give it to you after all. You won't be disappointed if you don't allow yourself to rely on others.

Yes, this all makes logical sense, and I've been explaining my some-might-say-fierce-is-a-woeful-understatement independent streak that way for quite some time.

But what the universe seems to be not-so-quietly-stage-whispering is: I don't want to be caught thinking I deserve what I want, because that would make me a blazing Narcissist. And that would be bad. So... WHACK!!! WHACK!!!! WHACKETY WHACK WHACK WHACK!!!!!

You think you DESERVE a day off where you don't have to do anything? WHACK!!! You want to open that nice bottle of wine (I just mis-spelled it with an "h" twice...) for no particular reason other than it'll taste good? Didn't you see what that did to your father? WHACK!!! You want to watch TV and read books and not spend the day looking after the needs of heartless vultures who need you to look after their shit for them? WHACK!!! You want to buy yourself a new pair of comfortable and hole-less shoes instead of give money to charity? WHACK!!!

Geez, Alyssa, you're so freaking selfish. I mean, it's probably genetic, or at least learned behaviour. It's not your fault you're such a selfish person, but holy crap, you'd better protect the world from your obvious narcissistic behaviour. If you let yourself sit still for an hour, the next thing you know, you'll be an alcoholic pedophile pill-popping suicidal maniac who thinks the whole world owes her a favour!!!

Or...

I could figure out those damned shades of grey. And the damned shades of all the other colours...

Hey... little Narcissist... I think you might be a helpful personality to have around sometimes. Because, until Medusa showed up, Saturday was actually a pretty good day. I mean, don't go overboard, there are others who have to share this body. But... I'll try to put that big club away, and stop whacking you in the head. You're right, the idea of you taking over all the other bits of me and turning me into an alcoholic pedophile pill-popping suicidal maniac is a bit far-fetched. I'll try to clear out some closet space for you, maybe let you buy a new pair of shoes. Yes, I'll let you buy a pair of shoes, but we aren't going shopping for neo-citran or crack or anything, OK? Deal? Deal.

So, a la Ms. Markoe's heroine: What have I learned this year?

That having a jammie-and-cheesy-television day does not make me a crack whore. That having a couple of needs satisfied from time to time does not make me a raging narcissist. That having wants and needs does not make me a raging narcissist. That saying "no" to things I don't want to do doesn't make me a raging narcissist. That saying "yes" to things I do want to do doesn't make me a raging narcissist.

That people became narcissists in the first place because their needs weren't met.

That I run into more danger of becoming a raging narcissist by insisting my needs don't get met than by allowing myself to meet my needs.

Ooh, that one felt scary... So much for being fearless.

What do I want to learn in the coming year?

How to let those needs raise their heads without whacking them down. How to embrace my inner Narcissist. How to not denigrate her by calling her a narcissist.

But hey, baby steps, right? We don't find a balance until we swing to each side. So... First, I'm going to simply embrace my inner Narcissist. Ask her what she wants, what she needs. Buy her a pair of shoes. Bake her a birthday cake.

She's been hidden away for so long, the lights are a bit bright. And her head is a bit sore. She might have some trust issues of her own... I'll have to make sure she doesn't bid a hasty retreat.

Not that I'm dissing the truth, here. Anyone who knows me has seen me in action, my sword in hand, carving away at the B.S. and "beautiful lies" until left with that cold, hard nugget of truth. Having grown up in a funhouse-mirror world of lies and illusions, finding the truth and seeking out truthfulness is more than a bit of a quest for me. And I'm not just hacking away at other people's lies, I'm equally brutal with myself, forever holding my words and actions under the microscope and making sure I'm being true to and with myself.

The truth is amazing. The truth is wonderful.

But, as you can see in my above metaphors, it doesn't set you free. It doesn't really DO anything except sit there and be truthful, waiting for you to hack away at the stone and find its beating heart.

And when you find it, it ain't necessarily gonna give you magical fairy wings or sing hallelujah. You will not be floating above the clouds on a golden saucer with your personal shiny, happy Cupids floating around you.

"The truth hurts."

Now THERE'S a platitude that makes sense. Not all the time, of course, sometimes the truth can be quite wonderful. But...

If you had to hack through a giant rock to find that beating heart of truth, odds are that you and/or someone else worked very hard to put that rock together in the first place. That beating heart of truth needed protection from something, or someone needed protection from it.

The truth doesn't set you free. You set the truth free.

And then you deal with the consequences.

So now you've found it. You've left it vulnerable. You've left yourselves and others vulnerable. There will be a tremendous fight to cover it up again. Depending on what truth it is, there may be a whole army of people swooping in. You may not, as the movie says, be able to handle the truth. Others might not want you to handle the truth.

The truth may be free, but you've still got a long, arduous battle ahead.

Not that I'm trying to dissuade anyone, just make sure you aren't expecting rosebuds and moonbeams. You've only completed part one of your quest. As any epic adventure writer knows, good stories come in Trilogies. :-)

Part One: You set the truth free.

Part Two: You realize the battle has just begun. You figure out if you can handle the truth. If no, put it back, draw a map of where it is so you can come back to it when you're ready. If yes, turn to page 45... You figure out if others can handle the truth... if yes, turn to page 52. If no, turn to page 63... Is this a truth that is ok to keep to yourself for a while? If yes, wrap it up in a warm blanket and keep it safe. If no, put on your helmet and draw your sword, it ain't gonna be pretty.

The human brain has this wondrous capacity for making up stories that help us stay sane. That's not always a good thing, that's not always a bad thing. Just because you're ready to explore and reassess your own stories doesn't mean that everyone else around you is in the same place. In fact, odds are they aren't. No matter how obvious the truth may be to you, as you stand with arms outstretched, holding its beating heart, there are those who cannot deal with its rawness. Yet. Maybe ever.

You need to decide if a battle is worth it. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. Nobody really wants to hurt another (except, of course, psychopaths), but... All too often, we're willing to hurt ourselves in order to not hurt others. In the more extreme cases, we convince ourselves that walking into the middle of the battlefield without no sword and no armour is a nice and peaceful way of solving things. Which it could be, if the other party is similarly attired and willing to chat. But walking into the middle of the battlefield with no sword and no armour while the other party continues to shoot guns and arrows and hack at you with their sword is not going to get you far.

Sometimes that rock is necessary. Sometimes a fortress wall is necessary. If you've got the truth and nobody wants you to have it, the world can seem like a nasty place. You don't feel terribly free. You just feel terrible.

You build up the walls and hire the guards and keep a vigilant watch. You keep yourself safe. You keep the truth safe. You may verge on the over-protective but, heck, look how vulnerable that beating heart of truth is, and how single-minded those outside parties are -- they'll stop at nothing to get rid of it, so you'd better stop at nothing to protect it. No matter how crazy they say that makes you.

The truth doesn't make you crazy, it's the people who want to get rid of it that make you crazy.

Part Three: You realize that the beating heart of truth is actually your own. You resign yourself to the fact that there will always be people who want to hide it, to get rid of it, to destroy it. You and your beating heart get stronger, wiser. You don't let your crazy-makers in. You learn to recognize the people who will treat your beating heart with respect, and you stop making room in your life for the crazy-makers. You slip up sometimes. A little bruising occurs from time to time. But you and your beating heart surround yourselves with other beating hearts, and the resulting joy... well, it creates those hallelujahs and floats you above the clouds on a golden saucer and yes, there ARE rosebuds and moonbeams and rainbows.

So yes, the truth WILL set you free... Just not instantaneously.

As with any of the good stuff in life, it requires an epic journey, a bit of grunt work, a lot of bravery, some dragons and ogres, a bunch of battles, a bit of luck, some trusty companions, and... a beating heart.]]>
Mon, 28 Nov 2011 15:22:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-truth-will-set-you-free--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-truth-will-set-you-free--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterThe birth of a noteThis, combined with some discussions we had at the same week's Amity Trio rehearsal, has had me pondering about all the aspects of listening the past few days.

For many of us, the idea of keeping in time begins with us playing along to a metronome -- that clicking annoyance of sometimes painful rhythmic accuracy. It's a good start. It shows us where we're tempted to rush or slow down, where our sense of rhythm is completely off, where we're losing the "heartbeat".

However, if we were to listen to a metronomically-accurate performance of anything, it would be as exciting as watching paint dry. Part of the tension and release of music comes from playing with the push and pull of the tempo -- making your audience wait, or surprising them by jumping in.

If you're playing solo or singing a cappella, you have total freedom in this endeavour (within the boundaries of taste and reason!). As soon as you add an accompanist or ensemble member, however, there's a whole new layer of complexity -- how do you communicate the when and where of this push and pull?

If you're just listening with your ears, then you'll always be lagging behind a bit, reacting to what you've already heard a split second earlier. You can't just react, or the whole piece will drag to a crawl as everyone lags behind. You need to anticipate what the others are going to do. Which is easy if the others are playing metronomically, but more complex if they're playing musically (which we all hope they're doing, or it's gonna be a lllooonnnnnnggggg performance!).

This is when music teachers and coaches around the world introduce the idea of eye contact -- at the beginning and ending of phrases, and whenever possible in between. If your head is buried in your music, there's no way you can communicate with your musical partners. If your toe is tapping the beat, you are not paying attention to your musical partners, you're attempting to take over as conductor and only paying attention to your own rhythm. (Which might be OK if you're a soloist with accompaniment, but you still need to pay attention and communicate this rhythm to your accompanist and not the floor.) Of course, as with our trio, there is often a great deal of verbal discussion behind the scenes, but when reading through something for the first time, or once you've decided on how you wish to play a phrase, then a nod, a breath, or a raised eyebrow is all it takes to ensure you begin a piece or a phrase or a note together.

As I discovered when playing next to a rather lazy and incompetent principal cellist who kept relying on me to keep track of our entrances, those visual cues aren't necessarily accurate. ;-)

It doesn't have to be a resentful stand partner who is trying to "out" you and your sneaky ways by moving her head a bar too early (and then shrug and itch her nose like she almost had a sneeze, or carefully examine her bow-hair...). But, as my former ensemble coach, the late Ken Perkins of the Orford String Quartet, taught me: what people INTEND to do is not always what they ACTUALLY do. You have to pay attention to what they're actually doing, not just go with their best intentions. Don't ignore their intentions, but do be aware of what's going on with the rest of their body. For instance, they may be wanting to produce a sound at time point A, but their bow is too high off the string to get there on time, so you adjust to match the reality, not the intention.

These cues are getting into the much more subtle.

But think about it: a note doesn't begin when the sound begins. Watch a string player, and you'll see all the subtle preparations the left hand has to go through to prepare the note, and the right arm has to go through to prepare the bow to make the string sound. Watch a wind player or a singer take a preparatory breath. Watch the pianist or percussionist lift their hands or mallets to prepare to strike. There are at least a couple of seconds before the sound occurs when you can see the preparation for that inevitable sound. Much like a diver jumping on the end of the diving board, you've committed well in advance -- and if you break that commitment after you've made it, you're going to have a painful belly flop! :-)

Let's stick with the diver for a moment -- even before that final, no-stopping-me-now springboard bounce, there's the run or walk to the edge. Before that takes place, there's the moment of focus and concentration.

It's the same with the first note of a piece. Or of a phrase. Before you can make that final "bounce", you've had to decide what you want to do after it starts! You need to have the sound in your head, the tempo, etc.

Yes, this can all be communicated through eye and body language, through the physical preparations, but...

The next level of listening involves neither the ears nor the eyes.

Ken made our university ensemble rehearse with our eyes closed. Very scary, and counter to all that had been drilled into us about ensemble playing up until then. But once we were able to stop our nervous giggling... wow. (The Orford String Quartet would do this regularly, going one step further by recording their rehearsal, and playing it back at half-speed to see if there were any even slightly ragged entrances!)

Our eyes and ears and bodies can sometimes lie to us. Our eyes and ears and bodies make mistakes on a regular basis. Our Music does not.

When you can tap in to the Music and ignore your eyes and ears and body, you realize that the notes begin long before you're even conscious of them. They may never even "begin" at all, but be there constantly, waiting for you to invite them to come out and play.

On those rare occasions when all the members of an ensemble are tapped in to the Music, it's a blissful thing. Music High.

Which, quizzically, requires that you have built up control of your eyes, ears and body and technique... and then totally let it go.

All that advanced preparation, all the training, all the planning. And then run... bounce... dive... YIPPEEE!!!]]>
Mon, 21 Nov 2011 14:02:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-birth-of-a-note--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/the-birth-of-a-note--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterWhen will I be good enough?There are two equally valid and truthful answers to this question:

1. You're already good enough, and2. Never.

Neither answer, on its own, is honest or fair. I always give both answers, weighting them depending on where I feel the student is at the moment.

One example I use is Yo Yo Ma's two recordings of the Bach cello suites. The first was recorded when he was quite young. Is it good enough? Darn tootin', it's good enough. It's fantastic. But... a few decades later, with all he had learned in the meantime, he realized he had something more to say, and re-recorded the suites. If you A-B the two recordings, they're completely different. And yes, there's quite a good argument that the newer one is better -- although that, of course, depends on the listener's perspective and tastes. But even if you're with me on the second recording being an improvement... does that make the first not good enough? Absolutely not. Cellists around the world would probably give their eye teeth to be that good.

But age and maturity, along with the wrinkles and responsibilities, does give us all both a broader perspective and a deeper perspective -- on life, on music, on pretty much everything.

When we start to learn music, to play an instrument, to use our voice, to play with others, our focus tends to be more in the "not making mistakes" department. Our most pressing goal is to not screw up. So we practise. (Eventually, we learn that it's not actually possible to NEVER screw up, and also learn how to practise getting out of mistakes gracefully!) And we get ourselves to a point when we're reasonably confident that we can make it through a performance or jam session or whatever we're trying to do without falling hopelessly on our face.

We get to that point, and realize that we want more out of music than simply not falling on our face. We can manage to not fall on our face in many different circumstances (at least most of the time), but there's something more than that which draws us to the music.

That's when the fun begins.

That's why the first answer to the "when will I be good enough" question is so very important. Because music really has very little to do with getting the notes right, and a student who is terrorized into thinking they're wrong all the time is never going to get to the fun stuff. And the fun stuff is REALLY FREAKING FUN!!!

I often get students after they've already started with someone who's initiated them into terror. It's a long haul bringing them back from that. But last year, I was lucky enough to get an absolute beginner who really wanted to play cello (i.e., this wasn't her mother forcing her to do something). I still remember the big, ecstatic grin on her face as she plucked the strings and said "listen to that!!!" I seriously had to force myself to not burst into tears in her first lesson, lest I scare her off.

And yes, of course I still have to make sure she's holding the bow properly and not squeezing too hard and reading the notes correctly and blahdeblahdeblah... but we can also have fun with the music side. And sure, she's an early teen, so when I tell her to make something up off the top of her head, she still balks and waits for further instruction, but... she is getting better at letting things flow. I do keep having to remind her she's good enough. But I don't have to tell her to practise or work hard, because she's paying attention to the sounds she's making, asking for help when it's not a sound she wants to make, and experimenting in the privacy of her room with different ideas -- sometimes coming to a lesson saying "I think I'm doing this, how can I fix it?"

I still try hard not to burst into tears. :-)

A former student used to come to his lesson, look terribly guilty, and then "confess" that he had used his allotted daily practise time to work out songs he'd heard on the radio. He always thought I'd be mad, because he wasn't "really practising." Once again, I had to try hard not to burst into tears... I'd ask him to play it for me, he'd look sheepish, then play it, his head bobbing to the rhythms of the invisible drum kit. After seeing me do some of my singer-songwriter stuff with the foot percussion, he begged his mom for his own, and surprised me one day with his own composition -- he played it for the Kiwanis competition later that year and was rewarded not just with a high mark, but exuberant comments from the adjudicator. This reaction made him want to keep going, to improve, to learn, to refine, to get better.

There's a common progression when formally learning to play music. First, we want to make sure we play the right notes. We get to that level, and then we want to make sure we're starting those notes at the correct time. We get to that level, then realize we need to finish them at the right time, too. Then we work on the articulation, then what we do in the middle, then how those notes fit together into a figure, then how they fit into the phrase, then how the phrases fit together into the whole piece... It never really ends.

Take the Beethoven trio I was mentioning yesterday. We performed it already in January, we'd worked on it until we thought it was performance-ready, and then we performed it. By the audience reaction, we performed it quite well, thank you very much. But we didn't sit back and think "OK, we're done". We've spent the last several months trying to find more "meaning", subtle nuances, fix sections we thought could be more coherent, found different ways to express and bring out certain phrases. And we're so much happier with how we're playing it now, we're very excited to present it in a couple of weeks -- and kind of hoping there will be people there who heard the previous version and will appreciate the difference. But even if there are no repeat listeners, we're thrilled with the new interpretation.

If we play it again somewhere next year or in a few years, we'll probably change it again. Because if we didn't have something new to say, there really wouldn't be much point in saying it.

I have been a part of -- and left, disappointedly -- several ensembles who got to "good enough" and stayed there. No curiosity, no desire for self-improvement or ensemble-inprovement, they just wanted to get the job done and get out of there.

Honestly, if you're that bored of the music, if it's just a job, you should really not be a musician. I'd say the same thing to someone in any other job -- if it doesn't excite you, get the hell out and find what will. Because if you love what you do, you won't wait for the boss to tell you to get better at it (and then resent your boss for saying so), you'll be self-motivated to look for ways to improve. Not because you were bad at your job, but because you want to be even better.

Between my "Big Ethyl" incident at the beginning of this year and Don's cancer and recovery now, life has given me a more-than-subtle nudge to figure out what's important and what to let go. Part of the weeding-out process has been a question of "what do I have time for?" (The answer, of course, is I haven't had time for most of this, but somehow expected myself to be able to bend the space-time continuum in order to accomplish six full-time jobs at the same time!) But in the last couple of months, it's also started to come down to: what am I passionate about doing? There are a few things I never was particularly passionate about, but did them out of guilt or obligation or misplaced loyalty or whatever other silly motivations there are to do things that completely bore you. There are others I started off doing quite passionately, but realized in a number of recent "ah-ha!" moments that I just don't give a crap about any more -- which means it's definitely time (or past time) to hand these things on to someone who WILL be passionate about them, for everyone's benefit.

If you love what you do, you're good at it AND you want to be even better.

If you're taking cello lessons because your mother wants you to, neither one of us is going to have much fun. If you're taking cello lessons because you want to play music, we're both going to have a lot of fun. Like that one student on her first day, happily plucking the strings and listening in awe to the sound, you are already good enough. Like that same student a year and a half later, bringing me pieces she wants to learn but doesn't know how to reach some of the notes yet, you will never stop practising and learning, because being good enough will never be good enough for you.

Which kind of sounds like a negative thing on the surface, but... it's actually the really fun part.

There's a reason why it's called "playing" the cello, not "working" the cello.

As I tell my students all the time -- go find a video of Yo Yo Ma performing. Even if you don't know the first thing about all the mechanics and technical things his body has to do to make that cello sound, the one thing ANYONE will notice is that he's smiling, often laughing, having a musical conversation with his fellow performers, with the audience, with his instrument. He is PLAYING the cello. He's not worried about getting the notes right (granted, he's had several decades to work on the notes, but even so...), he's not worried about whether he'll screw up (and if you follow his career, it's not because he's remained stagnant in a safe place -- he's constantly pushing his own boundaries and putting himself in unfamiliar musical genres and situations), he's PLAYING. It's a joy to watch and a joy to listen to.

Even Yo Yo Ma practises, kiddies. Because he knows he will never be good enough. But he knows that's a good thing. And as we all know, his version of "not good enough" is pretty darned fantabulous!

It was in my Amity Trio rehearsal yesterday that I discovered it's a good thing to remember with many things in life. You see, we were rehearsing Beethoven's "Archduke" trio, which I've played many times before. But December 4 (our "Gift of Music" series concert at St. Luke's in Creemore) will be my first time performing it on Lady Jo, my beautiful new-to-me-but-275-years-old cello.

After over two decades struggling with my "old clunker" of a cello, fighting to simply get the notes to sound, I've finally got an instrument that responds to everything I ask her to do. It is heavenly.

Of course, after two decades with the clunker, it's often difficult to remember I don't have to try so hard. I still see a passage coming that used to give me difficulty, and can feel my body tense up and try to will the instrument into submission. I have to remind myself the very same things I tell my students -- if you fight the instrument, the instrument will fight you. Coax it, don't force it. (One of the reasons I love teaching -- often a student will hold up the mirror and make me see something that has slipped in to my own playing.)

And so, the fingerings that were awkward but necessary on the old cello can now be switched to something more elegant and, dare I say, musically-inspired on Lady Jo. I don't have to saw away to get the g-string to speak on the upper positions, I can just tickle the notes out (yes, that does sound dirty... you're welcome).

Of course, I can no longer blame a bad instrument and allow my left hand to get lazy on those blistering runs any more -- the strings WILL speak if I do my job properly.

When you have a musical partner like Lady Jo, you don't have to spend so much of your energy putting up a fight, you don't have to compromise musicality for reliability, you don't have to worry if she'll do her part, you just have to worry about doing your own.

I imagine it's like being the female half of a skating pair -- you do your job much better when you don't have to worry your partner is going to drop you on your head. :-)

What's that about art imitating life? Or life imitating art?

I spent so much of my life with no tools or bad tools. What a relief it is to finally be in a place where I don't have to try so damned hard. Life just works as it should. Music just works as it should. I am able to put more into the world, because I'm not spending so much energy fighting it any more.

My cello students are used to my endless "don't conform your body to the cello, get the cello to conform to your body" and "if you ask it politely it will sound better than if you beat it into submission" and "don't try to play like me, play like yourself" comments. Sometimes I wonder if I'm teaching them cello so much as teaching them life.

It's the same premise, really. The abuser / oppressor fails to see the other as anything less than, well, a thing -- a means to an end, a plaything, something in the way of their needs or goals, or a way to meet their needs or goals. The victim tries to explain, fill in the picture, help the abuser / oppressor see things from their side, pleas for compassion, for reason, for empathy...

And wastes a whole lot of time doing so, because the abuser / oppressor doesn't really give a crap. Be it narcissist, sociopath, psychopath, or corrupt and greedy system, it doesn't care about the victim because the victim is just a roadblock or stepping stone. Bring out the bulldozers. Or the SWAT team. Or the billy clubs. Or a few choice words to send the spirit reeling.

Trying to explain the faults in a system -- be it a multi-national system or an interpersonal system of two -- is almost guaranteed to fail, when you're trying to explain it to the person / entity who perceives itself to be the winner.

"Look at what you're doing to me" will not fly. A corrupt / greedy / narcissistic / sociopathic / psychopathic entity doesn't recognize you're even a "me". It just wants to keep winning.

The only way that human or structural entity will take pause is when he / she / it understands that he / she / it is also on the losing side of the equation. Which is difficult when that entity has a very limited view of what winning entails.

In an interpersonal relationship, there comes a time when you simply have to walk away. In a relationship with a multi-national system... where the hell do you go?

Hmm... more questions than answers today.]]>
Tue, 15 Nov 2011 16:55:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/abuse-of-people-abuse-of-power--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/abuse-of-people-abuse-of-power--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterWhen too much is finally enoughBut you can't stop them from going through those steps, no matter how much you want to protect them from their actions. They won't stop until they've tried it all. Sure, you can try to make suggestions, ask questions, give whatever guidance you can offer, introduce some new tools to their emotional toolkit, but there's nothing you can do to get them out of the situation until you see in their eyes that "ah-haaa!" moment. When THEY realize that nothing they are doing is making a dent of difference in the other person's behaviour.

And that moment is enlightening. That moment is relieving. That moment really and truly sucks.

Because, while it is the moment you realize it's not your fault, it's also the moment when you realize you're not super-human. And, like any good co-dependent, you have based your expectations of yourself on your incredible super-humanness. You are proud that you can do things nobody else can withstand. You can deal with pain that would make lesser people whimper at one-tenth of a percent. You are so much better at enduring this stuff than anyone else on the planet, you might as well take it on and save the world!!!

Until your body finally reaches out and throttles that part of your brain, and shows you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you really, truly, can't take this any more.

And then you mourn. A funny type of mourning, because the abuser hasn't really left (typically, they're still calling you or e-mailing you or harassing you at your workplace or your front door several times a day, telling you how they wouldn't have been so awful to you if you hadn't really deserved it...), and the end of the relationship as it stands is, indeed, a good thing that even your battered brain can recognize. But you mourn for what you wanted the relationship to be. For what you tap-danced and cartwheeled and juggled fire to make it be. And now know it may never be.

Not that it necessarily will never be... of the five relationships where I had to completely pull the plug, two came back into my life, after they (and I!) learned what my boundaries are, and they (and I) learned how to respect them. Of course, those relationships are still not the sunshine-and-lollipop fantasy relationships I had to mourn earlier, but they're healthy, reasonably satisfying relationships. The other three could never be, because the other part of the duo had no desire or ability to change their part of the equation.

And that's the hardest lesson to learn. You can't force somebody to be compassionate.

As children, we don't know enough to tell ourselves that our parent / caregiver / authority figure has some severe emotional issues of their own and are not competent to look after us. We can't think that way about the people who are charged with looking after us. Instead, we tell ourselves that we must not deserve that care, and then start looking for all the reasons we can think of.

As the damaged adults growing out of those children, unless someone is able to give us the tools we missed in our childhood toolbox, we continue to hold those thoughts about our undeservedness. And when, inevitably, we run across someone who treats us in the same cold way, we see it as confirmation of those lies about ourselves. So we accept it. Anyone who tells us we deserve better obviously doesn't know us that well...

But the beauty of the world is that even a decades-belated adolescence is still an adolescence. It's still fraught with the same pain and grief and angst... maybe not the acne, but the pain and grief and angst. And it's not much fun. But if we're surrounded by a good support team of people who are compassionate and do care for us, our emotional maturity finally has a chance to catch up to our physical maturity.

I used to say I was 18 going on 80, and many parts of me were -- by that age I had experienced, suffered through, and come out the other side of more traumatic movie-of-the-week-ready events than many people go through in a lifetime. But many other parts of me were, later, still 30 going on 5. I was missing a lot of tools in my toolbox. My family never taught me how to play baseball, because there were no baseball players in my family who knew how to do it. My family never gave me the proper tools for my toolbox because they didn't have the tools, either. I'm sure we can go back many generations and find a lot of tool-less individuals (and yes, some tool-less tools!).

I was lucky. I found some wonderful people in my life who gave me the tools I needed, and taught me how to use them properly. Yes, sometimes I still try to use a hammer to change a light-bulb, but I'm getting better at figuring out which tools are needed when. That whole "trusting my gut" thing.

It was a conscious and difficult effort to build my toolkit. And now it's my responsibility to help whoever's looking for it put their kits together too.

Number one tool, by the way, is trusting your gut. (I never said I was perfect at using my toolkit, just that I was much better at it than before!) There is a time to sit back and just be there, there is a time to offer assistance, there is a time for emergency intervention -- your gut will know. Just listen.]]>
Mon, 14 Nov 2011 17:20:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/when-too-much-is-finally-enough--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/when-too-much-is-finally-enough--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterCrying WolfWhat started as a minor fever developed into a ridiculously high one on Monday night, resulting in Don being taken by ambulance to emerg (I've never called 911 before -- it kind of felt like getting away with something, which probably necessitates a whole other self-examination!), where they fought like hell to get control over the fever and a raging infection.

This outcome, of course, left me feeling rather chastened for my rant about men and fevers. And mad as hell at the home care and TeleHealth nurses who had told us there was nothing to worry about, and I should just feed him ginger ale and wait 48 hours for the fever to subside.

There is a connection between those two previous sentences. Crying wolf.

My rant about men and fevers was, at the time, perfectly valid, as the fever hadn't gone more than one degree above normal at that point, and my experience with Don and other y-chromosome carriers with minor fevers had definitely been of the sucky-baby variety. Can't and won't take that one back! :-)

But the problem in the face of mild-fever-sucky-babytude is that it's hard to notice when the fever actually gets worse, because the pinnacle of sucky-babytude was already reached at 37.4 and had no further to go. The only way to tell if the temperature has gone up past 40 is to stick your hand on his head and pull it back like you've just touched a lit stove. And then wish you'd paid attention to the moaning a few hours earlier, even though it sounded exactly like the moaning from two days before. And then wish he weren't a y-chromosome carrier, which is really a silly wish to make, but at least you wouldn't have stopped paying attention to all the cries / moans of "wolf", and known when there was actually a wolf at the door.

That's the first sentence. How does crying wolf apply to the second?

In times of high stress, we tend to revert to our childhood knee-jerk survival strategies. One of my more prominent ones was to hide in the background, not raise my voice, be insanely careful to never "cry wolf" or be perceived as doing so, so that when the time came when I had big reasons and big proof, somebody would listen to me. (Not a terribly successful strategy, as it turns out, but that's a whole other blog entry...) The other biggie was to never question authority, even if I knew they were wrong, because there would be severe consequences. (This was an incredibly realistic survival strategy at the time, not terribly helpful any more.)

So when I first called the home care nurse about Don's fever on Saturday, and she said it was probably nothing to worry about, he'd just picked up a bug from a visitor, I took that as the voice of authority. I did ask if it might have anything to do with his surgery, or the catheter, or if there anything to worry about or keep an eye out for, but pretty much got laughed off the line and told to feed him ginger ale until he got better.

Of course, silly 'lyssy, don't bother the poor nurse with your petty concerns about minor fevers when she's got more important things to deal with. If you're a thorn in her side now, she won't listen to you when it really matters. Don't be a sucky baby.

And, lo and behold, the fever was gone Sunday morning, so she was obviously right and I was obviously just a glass-half-empty worrywart with trust issues. Right?

Unfortunately, the fever was back Sunday night, along with nausea and vomiting. It was too late to call the home care nurses, so I turned to TeleHealth instead. Explained the history of Don's surgery and the fact that he had an indwelling catheter, and specifically asked several times and in several ways if this could be an infection we should worry about? Again, no, couldn't possibly be, because the catheter bag wasn't cloudy. We should just wait 48 hours for the fever to clear, don't bother the poor overworked folks in emerg just for a trivial fever.

Yes, even in intelligent, knowledgable, capable and competent adulthood, in times of stress it's really hard to shake those ingrown voices. What we hear as children seeps so deeply into the psyche that it becomes our own voice. On my better days, I'm fully conscious and aware of whose voice it truly is. In sleep-deprived, stressed-out, uber-care-giver mode, however... I'm still easily duped, even by myself.

And yet, when those "never cry wolf" voices scream their loudest, it has ALWAYS been when there's an actual wolf in the room. The "never question authority" voices have always screamed their loudest when the people in authority were not to be trusted, and my gut was correct. This was the case when the adult voices shouted this at my childhood self. This is the case when my inner daemons shout this at my adult self.

Listening to those voices has always caused me harm. Not listening to my gut has always caused me harm.

Yes, I have trust issues. Maybe there's a good reason for that. Maybe I have trust issues because certain people can't be trusted. That's not a fault, it's simply good perception. I should learn to trust my trust issues. :-)

So... how do you train yourself to trust the gut you know has never led you astray?

This is not one of those rhetorical questions I'm going to give an answer to. I would really, really love to know the answer.]]>
Thu, 10 Nov 2011 18:13:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/crying-wolf--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/crying-wolf--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterPatience for the patientYou see, he popped a fever over the weekend. After going through the checklist with the emerg nurse, we realized it was nothing to do with his surgery or any sort of infection, he'd probably just picked something up from one of his visitors. A relief, to be sure, but...

OK, call me horribly sexist, but there's something about the combination of fever and Y-chromosome that is NEVER a good thing. It seems to produce sucky baby at the best of times, and this is not the best of times.

The man was stoic through major surgery, hospitalization, sutures, staple removal, catheterization... and now give him a tiny fever and I JUST WANT TO SMACK HIM UPSIDE THE HEAD!!!

The man who wanted to get out of bed immediately post-surgery so I could have a nap now feels the need to call me downstairs in a panic because he needs a glass of water -- and I find him standing directly between the glass and the water source, thereby having to move him from between the two to provide him with the desired clear beverage. SERIOUSLY?!?

After over a week of playing nurse (and not in a fun way), doing all the errands, shopping, cooking, cleaning, lifting, catheter bag tending, scrubbing down bedroom and bathroom from catheter bag going awry, washing untold loads of urine-soaked sheets, towels and clothes... and now a weekend of holding the barf bowl, cleaning the barf bowl, calling nurses and wiping fevered brow and getting maybe a total of 3 hours sleep because every time he wakes up and remembers he's sick he lets out a ginormous sigh and moan until I wake up and ask him what's wrong and he says nothing... THEN he's complaining about the messy state of the KITCHEN?!?!?

Where's my frikken' gun?!?!?!? !!!!!!!!!!!!

OK, I know I'm not supposed to use this blog purely for ranting, I'm supposed to come up with some humanistic solution that helps all the readers and will make the world a better place, right? OK, so...

Yes, this whole Movember thing is lovely, and all the folks who have mentioned Don in their pledges have been much appreciated.

BUT if you REALLY want to do a good deed for men's health (and the women who love them), how be we all chip in for some research in to the Y-chromosome and FEVERS?

If there is a doctor on this planet who can find the cure for the male fever -- or at least get rid of the damned symptoms -- I would give my first-born child. You're right, I haven't given birth. But I would turkey-baste myself this very day if it would help cure the feverish baby males of the world. :-)

Incidentally, I also have a fever. Yet, as a possessor of a perfectly intact pair of X-chromosomes, I am still somehow perfectly capable of taking care of both myself and my feverish victim of testosterone poisoning (my 3rd year male psych prof's term, not mine), and of pouring both of us glasses of water, without sighing moaning or whining.

Ranting, perhaps. ;-)

I will be patient I will be kind I will not dump the barf bowl in his underwear drawer I will be patient I will be kind I will not empty his catheter bag into a glass and pretend it's flat ginger ale I will be patient I will be kind I will not allow myself near sharp objects I will be patient I will be kind...

Thanks for letting me vent -- you've probably saved a life (or at least a marriage) today. :-)Alyssa]]>
Mon, 07 Nov 2011 14:50:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/patience-for-the-patient--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/patience-for-the-patient--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterRoutine and RitualMy daily routine is ritualistic most days. A way to bring my self, my life into focus, prepare the way to get things done. Some days, such as yesterday, I begin to resent the restriction of it. Unlike most days, where I force myself through it, yesterday I gave myself a break. You will notice there wasn't a blog. There also wasn't much else. :-)

Not true, I should give myself credit -- there was lots done, many errands, much work. And a whole lot of sitting around with my hubby on the downstairs sofa bed watching DVDs. It was exactly what I needed.

Seems kind of funny, after the previous day of awareness and spirituality that all I wanted to do was zone out in front of the screen. I kicked myself for much of the early afternoon. But then, once I'd managed to get done all the things I had to get done, I simply embraced it. I needed to sit with my hubby and watch DVDs more than I needed to reflect or write or clean the oven. And that's OK.

I have to keep reminding myself WHY I gave myself the daily routine, including meditation time, writing time, exercise time, reflecting time, etc. It wasn't to constrict myself and make myself feel bad about failing to do those things. It was because, knowing my propensity for checking off to-do boxes, the only way I would allow myself the "ESC" (extreme self care) would be if it allowed me to check off a box. (I even assigned myself a weekly bubble bath, so the time wouldn't feel wasted.) It was to make sure I actually looked after myself.

And yes, there are those days when I still DO need to schedule in some me time, because I'm still likely to get carried away doing other stuff and ignore myself. But ignoring the routine yesterday was, in fact, giving myself some me time -- just in a different format than usual.

I still had to talk myself into it, though. Those check-boxes can be a curse as well as a blessing!

It's so easy to get stuck in routine -- even a good one. And for rituals to stop meaning what they were originally meant to mean. Sometimes they need some shaking up. Sometimes they need some letting go.

With my family and loved ones, for instance, I always make a point of saying "I love you" when hanging up from a phone call, or saying good-bye in person. You never know when or if you'll have a chance to say it again. Overall, it's a good thing, I think. But then, several years ago, I was on the phone with a recently ex-ed, being screamed and cursed at, and finally realizing what a horrible excuse for a human being he truly was... and as I was hanging up, it popped out of my mouth. Oy... stupid habit, way to give him power, Lyssy. Around the same time, an abusive family member phoned to similarly scream and rage at me for being so stupid as to get into an abusive relationship in the first place, and hung up with "I love you." From both sides, it didn't really mean what it was supposed to mean, it was just routine. (Of course, the combination of those two phone calls definitely helped me get to the "ah-haa!" moment about how I ended up in an abusive relationship!)

My sister and I both sang in the church choir from an early age, so while most kids were at Sunday school crayoning the baby Jesus, we got to be like the grown ups and stay for the service (hey, it was exciting for us to be considered grown up, and we could sneak books in under our choir gowns for the sermon!). Within a couple of years, we had the regular Sunday service and communion service and wedding and funeral services memorized perfectly (my sister would even hold perfectly accurate Anglican weddings for her stuffed animals, but that's a whole other blog entry...), both the parts we actually got to say and the parts the ministers usually said. (Once, when I was an older teenager, I was asked to give the readings -- and accidentally launched in to the minister's spiel when I was finished, because it just flowed so naturally from my brain. He was gracious and let me finish.) I loved the ritual, the calm, the knowing exactly what went where, the lack of surprise (decidedly different from my real world at the time), the comfort of the words and gestures. But then...

One day, I actually read the words of the Nicene Creed. Somehow, I was reading it with fresh eyes. And when I saw all the "I believe"-s I'd been rattling off for over a decade... I froze. Here I'd been declaring two or more times a week, in God's house, all the things I believed. But I wasn't sure I actually did believe these things. I'd never thought about what the words actually meant until that day, just the comfort of the ritual. And suddenly, it was topsy-turvy. I mean, let's forget for a moment about all those references in the services to God as our father, and my experience of fatherhood at that time, because that's a lifetime of blogs in itself. But how about in the Creed itself, "...in all things, visible and invisible." Pretty mighty stuff. How do I know if I believe in all things invisible? Does that mean everything invisible, like poltergeists and stuff, or just church-y invisible things like angels and heaven? How do you know which "all things" are supposed to be on the list? Will God be mad if I've forgotten to consider an invisible thing I don't even know about yet? My father saw giant coke bottles chasing him home one night, but nobody else saw them; I saw things happening right in front of our faces that everyone else seemed to be totally oblivious to -- where do those things fall on the scale of things I'm supposed to believe in?

When you grow up in a family of gaslighters and questionable mental and emotional wellness, announcing you believe in all things visible and invisible can open a rather large can of worms.

I mouthed the words from then on -- although in later years, I would subversively insert "she" and "mother" and "her" into the recitations, just to make a point. ;-)

That ritual lost its meaning. But others took its place. Some came and went, others are still an important part of my life today. I'm sure there's some I have that I'm not even aware of, but I do try and take them out of my pocket every once in a while, hold them up to the light, check for wear and tear and fault lines. Some are still useful and comforting. Some have gone the way of all things visible and invisible. What gives me comfort one day doesn't necessarily do the same the next -- but here I am, writing again, despite the "vacation" yesterday. Today it feels good, yesterday it would have been just another chore.

When the ritual becomes mere routine, it's lost its meaning. Time to shake it up, do something different, see what happens -- whether you miss it or feel relieved it's gone. Put it back in your pocket, but not if it's poking you in the arse. :-)]]>
Fri, 04 Nov 2011 17:06:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/routine-and-ritual--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/routine-and-ritual--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterEarly(-ish) morningAnd, you know, if it weren't for that whole waking up part, I could certainly see the appeal of being a morning person. :-)

It's just not possible. I've tried, many times and many ways, to adjust my inner clock. Even as a little kid, I missed most of the Saturday morning cartoons, because I couldn't get up before 10:00 -- even Bugs Bunny at 11:00 was tricky most weeks. My greatest joy when I graduated high school was that I'd never have to wake up before the sun again. (Well, that assumption turned out to be faulty, but at least I didn't have to do it on a regular basis!) I have seen many beautiful sunrises, but the majority of them have come from staying up to see them. The couple of people who have tried to wake me to see the beautiful sunrise have been greeted with incoherent grunts and moans and the odd finger gesture. I am a living example of that Garfield cartoon "I don't do mornings."

So... no sunrise this morning. Hell is still just as unfrozen as it was yesterday. But there was morning light. And morning quiet.

I had the house to myself, in effect. Don was still fast asleep. The phone wasn't ringing, because we've got people well trained to not call before the crack of noon, when we've got some coffee into us. Couldn't check e-mail, because the internet was down and our neighbours' signal wasn't strong enough.

So I sat at the kitchen table. Drank coffee. Bathed in the morning sun like the well-fed cats on the floor. Immersed myself in my own thoughts. Ahhh... Nobody needed me. Nobody interrupted me. I was alone. Just me and the sunbeam.

There was much to do today. First, the internet had to get fixed -- the Rogers guy actually showed up over half an hour early (good thing I'd already put clothes on, rather than sat around in my PJs, as was my original impulse!), replaced the pooched modem and was out of the house before his scheduled earliest arrival time, or before Don even woke up. Then several loads of laundry, dealt with the incoming mail, cleaned up the kitchen and cat boxes, a bunch of other less-than-exciting but necessary small jobs. Later this afternoon, I was able to get back in touch with customer service for our database, and got that back up and running. In the middle, got a bunch of phone calls and e-mails and other chores done.

But... even though I was able to check off a lot of to-do boxes, it didn't seem like a frantically busy day.

There ya go.

Just as I was questioning the value of my morning meditation versus getting boxes checked off, life conspired to convince me to get my arse on that zafu. Not only am I having a better day (despite turmoil with technology), I'm also checking off more boxes. And that makes me happy, despite the fact I keep telling myself it shouldn't. :-)

Today's Tarot: 4 of Swords in my "works" -- take time to rest, recoup, regenerate. Done. The rest all pointed to new energy, big change, and digging deeper into the spiritual world. Done. Hey, I seem to be getting better at these cards.

If only I were genetically programmed to be a morning person...]]>
Wed, 02 Nov 2011 18:44:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/early-ish-morning--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/early-ish-morning--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterTrick or TreatOnce again, life is forcing me to slow down. Or at least stop wasting too much time online. :-)

In the spirit of slowing down, I did not give in to the pressure to give out Halloween candy last night. Figured I had a good excuse... Put a sign on the door saying "recovering from surgery, please don't knock," so I didn't even have to subject myself to the guilt of not opening the door.

I was laughing with Ali about that later -- I've been quite good at saying "no" with the whole cancer surgery scenario providing a good excuse. Why do I need a good excuse to simply say "no"? She's doing the same thing -- has written an e-mail a dozen times to say she can't do a presentation next week, but she keeps deleting what she's written, because it goes into the long list of reasons why she can't. We really should just be able to say "no" and not have to fan out our reasons, we should just say "no". Why does a room full of total strangers need to know the intimate details of all that's been going on in her life, just so she can say no? They don't, it's none of their business.

Why I didn't feel the need to invite dozens of strange children into my house and give them free food is really nobody's business, either. "Recovering from surgery" was the simplified note on the door. Imagine what I would have written if given a chance?

Dear ghosts and goblins,

I'm so very sorry that I can not answer the door and give away tons of expensive candy that will make your teeth rot and drive your parents insane from the sugar buzz. But I'm dealing with a diabetic cat and a husband who just got out of surgery and several handfuls of people who are holding out their proverbial pillow bags and expecting me to just give and give and give more and more and more. And I'm exhausted, I'm really bloody exhausted. So having dozens of you little people come to my door with real pillow bags and similarly demand what's left of my resources makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and suck my thumb -- or at least a bottle of tequila.

There is no candy on the premises, and if there were, I would defend it to the death right now. Because I'd really like a few minutes out of the day where I could be selfish, but there are several days before that's going to be possible.

Furthermore, even if there hadn't been all these deaths and strokes and illnesses and family chaos and all the other stuff life likes to dump in your lap all at once, I can't say I'd really feel like it anyhow. Maybe I won't do it next year, either, let's see how you feel about that? If I'm going to give away my resources, it should be to a good cause, rather than sugar-poisoning small children.

Even that's a sorry excuse, I'm grasping at straws. The truth is, dear kidlets, I'm an introvert and an emotional sponge, both of which make shopping malls and sporting events and strangers coming to my door to demand things of me kind of a hellish experience. It was actually a relief to have a really good excuse this year. Nothing personal.

And then there's the decorations -- oh lord, the decorations! Every holiday has its own set, and it's a constant reminder that I am an utter failure in the decorations department. Either they don't get put up on time, or they don't get taken down on time. Hell, our wedding cards are still on prominent display in the living room, and we were married a year and a half ago. They're growing their own dust bunnies to keep themselves company, because I haven't been paying them any attention. You don't even want to look at the basement...

Trick or treat? Between the basement, the cat, computer frustrations, the number of people who want a piece of me, my own personal stress level, and my husband's catheter and open wound, you kids really don't want to push me in the trick or treat department, trust me.

In fact, you know what? Drop the bag of candy on the front porch, tell your dad to hand over the flask as well, and you guys make a quick get-away, before mama blows...

10... 9... 8...

Happy HalloweenZelda, princess of fury

So, what d'y'all think? Yup, probably a good thing I didn't answer the door! ;-)

And probably a good thing to just learn how to say "no", without becoming Zelda.

It's been kind of enlightening, being able to wave the "cancer card": I'm much more easily able to see what I don't really want to do. I can more easily recognize the people I feel I need to give an excuse to -- something to explore and deal with when I don't have the excuse. It's also much more easy to see the people who just don't give a modicum of a crap about my well-being, provided I continue to drop everything and do what they want. Guess which people are going to be gently (or not-so-gently) nudged out of my life?

Between "Big Ethyl" for me in January, and now Don's cancer (he never named his tumour, I guess they weren't too close...), and the myriad other things going on in our lives, this year has been showing me, bit by bit, subtly and with a big honkin' hammer, that I don't have time for all the things I've been trying to cram into my life. I don't have time for the people who take and take and take and never consider giving. I'm weeding... slowly, but I'm weeding. Separating the wheat from the chaff. Whatever natural metaphor you prefer.

I'm done scrambling to get things done that don't really matter, or that someone else could easily do if it was that important in the first place. I'm done babysitting and rescuing people who don't lift a finger for themselves, let alone anyone else.

I'm done filling up everyone else's pillow bags with my stuff, and having nothing left in mine.

Tarot card yesterday -- Six of Pentacles. No surprise. A card of generosity. You have many gifts and are in a position to share them with others. But beware of all the outstretched hands, and make sure you're sharing yourself in a balanced manner. Don't give people what they don't need, and don't give it all away, leaving yourself with nothing. Give where it will make a difference, don't give more than you have. Sometimes what people say they want is not really what they need. Share your gifts, but share wisely.

Trick or treat. :-)]]>
Tue, 01 Nov 2011 14:50:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/trick-or-treat--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/trick-or-treat--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterExpectationsMy "patient", Don (home from the hospital yesterday) is having a nap, and I'm catching up on e-mail, blogging, laundry, groceries, to-dos... Typical me. Although, to be fair to myself, there are a few "have-tos" and several "must-do-to-keep-my-sanity"s, and a number of "must tidy up so the home health care worker doesn't go into shock on Monday"s. :-)

That was me being fair to myself. Now for me being honest with myself: Ha ha ha ha ha ha hardeeharhar!

I haven't kept up with my expectations of myself my entire life -- why should I suddenly be able to now, when half the "household help" is recovering from surgery, and I've had to add Nurse Lyssy to my list of roles?

I've been cursing under my breath at people who knew what we were going through this week, yet still contacted me to ask stupid questions they really should be able to figure out on their own, still expected me to be able to function fully in the roles I'd already warned them I wouldn't have time for, and my personal favourite, the person who didn't have time to fulfil her own role so decided to dump it on me instead with no warning and no checking if I was able. Seriously?!?!?

But, back to the being honest with myself part -- SERIOUSLY?!?!? I mean, at least I curse those people under my breath. But I'm treating myself with the exact same disrespect, aren't I?

Why should anyone treat me any better than I treat myself?

I cannot tell you how many things I thought I'd get done while Don was in hospital. I'd packed up a number of books and magazines, none of which got touched (although I did read the same page of one of the books about 40 times before giving up on that endeavour). I'd also transferred my web design program onto the laptop, so I could re-vamp my website. (You will note it's still in the same sorry state as it was in 2007.) I was going to put together the online volunteer collaboration system for the OFS. I was going to go through all the tutorials for my new financial software and set up the business accounts. I was also going to keep up my workout routine, change the bed, wash the towels, get all the laundry done, wade my way through the glut in my inbox, and scrub the house top to bottom.

What the hell was I thinking?!?!?

Not to be outdone, Don, of course, thought he'd finish mixing the trio recording on his laptop in hospital, and had been upset they wouldn't allow him to bring in the laptop. And one of the first things he tried to do when he first opened his eyes after surgery (and the second, and the third...) was get out of bed so I could have a nap.

Seriously, it's kind of no wonder our previous relationships were all abusive, no? Probably the only way either one of us could have a healthy relationship would be this way: where we're each trying to un-self ourselves to equal degrees. (I remember taking a personality test when a client of the Sandgate shelter -- it basically said the same thing: that anyone but someone as self-effacing as me would be dangerous to get involved with. Good thing I ended up with the male version of myself, but geez, I really have to learn how to say "no" a little better with the rest of the world, don't I?)

Now for the giving myself credit part. I've accepted the casserole offers, and am not protesting. When Don placed his breakfast order, I made myself a pot of coffee first. I am back on track with my meditation and morning writing, which keep me sane (-ish). I will get on the treadmill today and will get at least one load of laundry done so I can have some clean underwear without holes available, and will do groceries so there's some decent, healthy food in the house. These last bits sound boring, but it'll feel good to get them done, and at least be closer to a normal (-ish) person in a normal (-ish) household than I've felt all week.

The website and the database and the financial software and the spring (!) cleaning will just have to wait. I'm only human. Oh, so very human.]]>
Sat, 29 Oct 2011 14:02:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/expectations--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/expectations--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterLong-awaited updateSurgery was successful, doctor doesn't think cancer has spread.i'm exhausted, but life is good.

No blog tomorrow. Honest, I mean it this time!]]>
Tue, 25 Oct 2011 22:36:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/long-awaited-update--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/long-awaited-update--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterOkay, I lied...The nurses and staff here are lovely. Even the fellow waiting-room folks are chatting away and hiding their nerves (except one, who was exceptionally cranky). The volunteers are cheery and helpful and would probably go to the bathroom for you if they could. The chick at the Tim Horton's counter, not so much... But, got a bagel into me -- look mom, I'm eating breakfast, and it's not even noon! ;-)

Of course, this means I will probably be starving by noon.

My beloved sister-friend Ali is not here and hasn't been in touch. Which tells me that she's had to go off to Ottawa to be with her aunt as she dies.

I hate cancer.

Especially when people I love have it, or the people they love have it.

I went to bed with a horrible wish that my ex-husband were going to hospital instead. I don't take it back. I'm going to hell. But there will be some cool music there, and most of my friends. :-)

Speaking of, we have some wonderful ones. Ray is en route from Toronto to be with is "brother" -- I told him Don might not be conscious for a while, but he wants to be close, anyhow. Ali's probably feeling guilty she isn't here -- which makes me laugh, because we were just talking about compassion fatigue and our inability to say no, which will undoubtedly lead to our demise.

I'm good. I'm an introvert. Being alone is generally my preferred mode... Otherwise, I'm looking after the people who are visiting. Ali is the exception, because she and I would have to jello-wrestle over who was taking care of who, and then Don might burst some stitches... ;-)

As far as old hospitals go, the RVH is rather bright and open. Some of the corridors are a little bleak, but the common areas are quite nice. You can't cross your legs without bumping into a handwashing station. I have a feeling I'll be eating a lot of Tim Horton's and Subway and Jugo Juice and Druxy's this week. I'll eat healthy on the weekend, promise.

OK, the cafeteria is starting to bustle. I've got some people-watching to do. There's an album worth of songs at the tables around me. If only I can stay awake long enough to listen...]]>
Tue, 25 Oct 2011 09:01:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/okay-i-lied--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/okay-i-lied--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterCh- ch- ch- changes... and listsI guess that makes today the last, what with Don's surgery tomorrow. Actually, we thought it would be, but apparently yesterday was, unawares, the last day of normalcy -- after learning his surgery is scheduled for 6:15am tomorrow (yeah, the hospital has obviously never met us!!!), it turns out that the toast he had for breakfast this morning is the last meal he's allowed. Only clear liquids for the rest of the day. So much for the dinner I'd planned... (they told us before he could eat until 11pm, but... apparently that info sheet was wrong!)

So... yesterday was apparently the last day of life-as-we-knew-it, and we didn't even know it. Today is waiting and fretting day. Tomorrow is the chaos day.

Glad that's figured out.

By the way, don't be expecting a blog tomorrow, at least not until evening. Although I may need something to do with my hands and brain while Don's in surgery... you never know -- wait, that blog was the other day's!

But it seems to be today's too. And yesterday's. And tomorrow's. Because you never know. Ever.

Don was planning on a nice long walk today. But now he has to stay close to home, and porcelain, because the pre-op medication is busy working its magic. I'm trying to figure out whether to move my trio rehearsal to Thursday or just give up entirely, because he may be released Friday morning... or he may not. His body is going to have to decide that one.

Which doesn't work very well in my world of planning and organizing and putting stuff down on calendars and to-do lists, so I can pretend at least temporarily that I have some sort of control over this wild and crazy thing that is my life.

Of course, that wild and crazy thing that is my life has been trying to show me for several months, if not years, that there is no controlling it. Which, I believe, I tend to equate with being out of control -- which is, in fact, a very different thing altogether, but my subconscious has yet to grasp the subtleties there.

I've got a to-do list a mile long. The reason why it's so long isn't because I'm out of control, it's because my making of to-do lists is out of control. :-)

I really need to make a habit out of sitting myself down, getting myself to estimate times for each "to-do", and then slap myself upside the head for expecting myself to get 36 hours worth of work squeezed into a 24-hour day. Especially on days when Mother Nature has other ideas and Life has a few other surprise lessons in store for me.

Should that truck or those aliens come to be, I'm quite sure nobody is going to mourn the length of my to-do list. My last thoughts will ever-so-likely not be about my to-do list. So if it's not important in death, why do I cling to it so in life?

Here I am, on the eve of my husband's surgery, trying to figure out how to squeeze enough workouts in to the week, between visiting hours and errands and updating friends.

Seriously, Alyssa?!? At this point, I think it's OK to skip a few workouts this week. You aren't suddenly going to be svelte by Friday if you do them, and you might need to take it a wee bit easy on yourself, too!

Now I'm bargaining -- maybe if I double up on Saturday...?

Dear lord, if I were able to type as fast as my brain can make up arguments with itself, you'd be reading a brilliant, if terribly pathetic, comedy right now. My fingers cannot travel at the speed of Lyssy, though. Another thing to kick myself for. :-)

The thing with to-do lists, other than the joy I get at ticking off the boxes, is that they keep me out of the present. I'm stuck in the past with things I wanted to do but didn't get done yet. And I'm stuck in the future with dreams of "one day my to-do list won't be 418 items long" (you think I jest? nosirreeee!) And I'm not here in the moment, embracing my imperfection.

I'm forever telling other people they don't need to be perfect, and should just embrace the beauty of their imperfections. Perhaps it's time to offer the same advice to myself?

At a women's integral retreat led by Don's and now my cousin Becky last year, we learned the 'mantra' "I am infinitely adequate" -- heck we even got the group to write a song about it. Boy, did I ever fight that mantra. Adequate? I'm only adequate? I'm supposed to be wonderful and perfect and better than anyone would believe a person could be!

Pfui.

Well, you're not. Suck it up, cupcake.

Provided you aren't slouched in front of the TV eating bon bons all day -- well, at least not every day, but maybe on the days when you need to sit, watch and eat -- whatever you do IS infinitely adequate. It's the best you can do that day. Other days, you'll be able to do more -- and if you're anything like me, you'll force yourself to. Other days, you won't have the time or the energy, and just might need a pyjamas and crappy movies and junk food day to restore your balance.

The to-do list can wait. Have a great meal with your spouse -- you never know when he'll be back on solid foods. Screw the to-do list and cuddle in front of the fireplace. Heck, screw your spouse, because prostate surgery is a bitch and it might be a long while before you get the chance again... (sorry, Mom!)

What's in your heart and in your soul is so much more important than any crappy to-do list. Guilt can take a holiday, she's not helpful at the moment. Although, Lyssy, you are 24 weeks behind on a bubble bath, and a couple of months behind on your weekly "me" hour. :-)

Yes, even when I put myself on a to-do list, I'm useless at looking after myself.

But at least I made it on to the list! Baby steps...

I'm getting wise and getting fitIt doesn't have to hurt a bitMy inner light is getting litI'm Infinitely Adequate[She's Infinitely Adequate][We're Infinitely Adequate]]]>
Mon, 24 Oct 2011 16:08:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/ch-ch-ch-changes-and-lists--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/ch-ch-ch-changes-and-lists--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterI need that like a hole in the headSo you see? Sometimes you don't really know what you need. And sometimes you think you do know what you need, but you're totally wrong. Sometimes, the thing you think is the worst thing that could possibly happen to you is actually what saves your life.

My first husband (speaking of what you think you need but are totally wrong about) used to have -- well, probably still has -- this annoying habit of mixing metaphors and other sayings. One of his favourite was "I believe that like a hole in the head." As I pointed out, if you had a hole in your head, you'd probably believe it. But you never know... he was never a big fan of truth and reality, he might have managed to keep the blinders on in a hole-in-the-head situation, too. But then again, maybe he's managed to mature a wee bit in the 15 years since I've seen him. I'll try to keep an open mind about that, myself...

Looking back, I see many things I clung to because I thought I couldn't do without them -- and once I lost them, my life got better. There were many things I thought would be the end of the world, but I survived them quite nicely.

Sometimes a hole in the head is exactly what you need to keep an open mind.

Run with it yourselves, folks. I've got stuff to do today. :-)]]>
Sat, 22 Oct 2011 14:19:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/i-need-that-like-a-hole-in-the-head--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/i-need-that-like-a-hole-in-the-head--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterLife or deathWoke up to the news that my uncle had had a stroke. Actually, I didn't know it was a stroke until earlier this afternoon, this morning I just knew he had two haematomae in his brain. This uncle is from the longevity-inclined side of the family, not to mention the stubbornly independent and infallible side. So he's not supposed to even get a cold, let alone a stroke.

Life doesn't work the way we tell it to, now, does it?

I tend to assume I've inherited the longevity gene myself -- I know I've inherited the stubborn gene (I prefer to call it self-assured...). So here we have another wake-up call.

Life seems to be telling me to live. Don't wait until everything's in place, because odds are it won't ever be 100% in place. Just live.

I remember when I worked at a senior's residence in Toronto, which had an Alzheimer's unit. One of the residents was in her fifties, having succumbed to (very!) early-onset Alzheimer's. Her husband, Jack, would come in every day with a big smile on his face and something nice to say to everyone he met. (I never knew how he did it, considering she was, unfortunately, in the very angry stage of the disease -- perhaps he was trying to make up for her mood?) He had been a firefighter, and they had been counting the days 'til his retirement, when they could travel the world together. Well, he did retire, but they never got to travel the world.

I'm a freelance musician, so retirement is never gonna happen, but... the message is still, obviously, DON'T WAIT 'TIL YOU RETIRE.

I've been talking of visiting Tuscany for years now. Always in "someday" mode. Maybe I should just save my damned pennies and book the flight.

Ever since my solo CD was released in 2007, I've been saying "as soon as... [insert "to-do" here], I'll get cracking on my website. Anyone who has visited my website in the last five years knows full well that it has yet to happen.

Kinda pathetic, when you see all I've done in my voluntary capacities for other people.

My own health scare at the beginning of the year, followed by Don's now, has forced me (although not completely, as evidenced by my website!) to re-evaluate and re-prioritize. As soon as (yeah, I know) the surgery is done, that re-prioritizing is going to take top priority.

Last month, I announced my resignation as Artistic Director (and general manager, and publicist, and operations co-ordinator, and... and... and...) from the Orillia Folk Society. Because... you never know when Big Ethyl will explode and mean it, or a teeny-tiny blood clot will cause massive damage, or I'll get hit by a truck or abducted by aliens.

My final thought is not, at this point, going to be "geez, I wish I'd spent more unappreciated volunteer hours furthering other people's careers" -- it's going to be "damn, why did I never take my own career, or my own life, as seriously as I took others?"

Had an interesting chat with my friend / honourary sister Ali last night, who does a lot of work on compassion fatigue. She recently came from a lecture by Gabor Mate (author of "When the Body Says No") who said, among other things, that in a study linking the inability to say "no" to developing ALS, he had become quite good at predicting who would get ill.

Because... as I believe I may have alluded to recently, if you don't look after yourself, or ask for help looking after yourself (even more difficult for me than the n-word), nobody's going to jump in and do it for you.

Nobody's going to take my career or my life seriously if I don't. As a self-employed person, nobody's going to give me a holiday -- or even sick leave -- if I don't.

And even if I eat and exercise and de-stress and do everything I can to look after myself, there's still that truck and those aliens.

So I'm not going to wait until I look good in a bathing suit (seriously, when have I EVER thought I looked good in a bathing suit?) before swimming in the ocean. I'm not going to wait until I've caught up on all my e-mails before I have lunch (I wouldn't have eaten since 2006, if that were the case...). I'm not going to finish all the piddly to-dos before I get started on the big projects that matter to me.

The first answer to that question was sleep in until noon and have apple pie for breakfast. Followed up with cursing myself for not completing eleven projects by 2pm. See? The world of Lyssy has not really changed that much, other than the pie...

But change it shall. A chapter has closed, so something is going to come in to fill the void -- I'm the one who chooses what gets in. So the next question becomes, what do I want to be when I grow up?

Stay CalmBe BraveWait For the Signs - Dead Dog Cafe (CBC)

Over dinner last night, Don and I were chatting about our recent experience at the OCFF conference in Niagara Falls, and what each of us got from it. We had both, apparently, come to similar conclusions about a few things. Namely, our discomfort at the desperation felt in some of the private showcase rooms, plus the (unfortunately, rather large) group of people who were simply bitter that the world had yet to discover them, even though they hadn't done a damned thing to further their careers other than sit and bitch with other undiscovered people.

Oh sure, there are the Justin Biebers of the world, but even then, his mother promoted the hell out of him. The folks who have actually "made it" in the folk world (and become "hundredaires", as Don says) are the ones who not only have incredible talent, but who have worked their arses off. They didn't sit around and bitch and expect the world handed to them on a silver platter.

I mean, take Dave Gunning, who was recently nominated for the CFMA's "Emerging Artist of the Year" award. Are you kidding me? This man's first CD was released in 1996, and he's finally being welcomed as a newcomer. He's not an instant discovery, he's worked and worked and worked -- and it doesn't hurt that he's a great songwriter, but he's a great songwriter who has worked and worked and worked (at both his music and his business).

I was in a funding workshop at OCFF, and one of the panelists asked the group how many had applied for funding before? Big show of hands. How many had been rejected? Fairly large show of hands. How many had re-applied? Embarrassingly small show of hands. So... someone doesn't give you what you want (depending on what you're applying for, you're in the same boat with 70-95% of the applicants), you stop asking, and then you complain that nobody funds you?

Can you imagine that with any other job? I mean, seriously, if everyone gave up trying after their first job interview, it would be a national disaster! And if they all sat around in the coffee shop whining that they were unemployed, somebody would smack them. (Maybe me...)

As happens every year, there are private showcases in the hotel rooms -- folks split the expense of the room to do a 30-minute-or-whatever showcase, in the hopes that people will listen to their set and hire them. As happens every year, there's a handful of complainers who come out to say it's a waste of money and the OCFF is trying to swindle them out of their cash, because nobody's ever hired them from the previous year's showcase.

Well, yeah... maybe because the sound of your whining was drowning out the music. (Oops, was that my outside voice?)

Or maybe you didn't do anything to follow up. Or maybe you didn't fit in to their programming. Or maybe you aren't as insanely awesome as you and your cats think you are. Or maybe a 20-minute showcase does not a career make...

You know that line about 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration? Well guess what -- if all you've got is the inspiration, that's not enough. Nobody else is going to put in the 90% for you if you're not willing to put it in for yourself. And if you're not willing to put forth the effort, don't go complaining that nobody else has done it for you.

Geez, how did this turn into a rant? I had a whole other idea when I started...

Both of our favourite part took place in the wee hours of Sunday morning (and by "wee hours," I mean just before sunrise), jamming in the Tunesmiths' room with folks like David Ross MacDonald, Scott Cook, Jesse Dee and Jacquie B, the aforementioned Dave Gunning, Ann Vriend, Dave Borins, Jadea Kelly, and a whole slough of others whose names I didn't catch. Not a whiner in the bunch, all go-getters making it happen. Despite the time and level of inebriation, the music in that room was incredible, the musicians sensitive in their accompaniment, the mood jovial and community-oriented. It was all about the music. Maybe they'll get a gig out of that room, maybe they won't. It's not about the room, it's about the music, it's about the community. And yes, there's a reason why you've heard of many of those folks -- if you don't know some of them, trust me, you will. Better yet, follow those links and take a listen.

So... getting back to today -- where do I want to put my 90% perspiration? Once the long sleeps and pie and surgery are over, that is.

In some ways, Don's surgery is providing both of us with a much-needed oasis in time. We have a darned good reason for saying "no" for the next few months. (OK, his excuse is better, but I'm taking it, anyhow!) An enforced hibernation period, when we can both figure out where we want to go, who we want to be, what we want to do, once we can stretch and yawn and go forth.

For me, it's the end of a chapter that has taken up much of my spare (?!?) time and kept me in survival mode for far too long. For Don, it's this sudden reminder of our mortality, and the need to live our lives before we don't have a choice anymore.

As our friend Ali had on her FB status update the other day: life isn't wrapped up in a bow, but it's still a gift.

As I replied: you just have to say "thank you" and figure out what you're going to do with it.

I am so very thankful for this gift, for where I am today, where we are today. I am not going to look that horse in the mouth and complain it's not as perfect as it should be. I'm not going to hide it in the basement and hope I get something better next year. I'm going to take it and run with it and enjoy every moment I have with it.

It may not be wrapped up in a bow, but it's the only thing that's truly mine. I am responsible for every opportunity I've missed, and every opportunity I've created. I am responsible for every choice I've made, and every decision I've avoided.

As I started singing in January, 2009:

I have cleared the space, it's time to take my placePrepare to speak my truth, stand up and be the proof

The war will carry on between the sword and the wandAnd I'll keep the rewards I've gainedAll advance, no retreat, peel away the conceitUntil only the Truth remains

Truth remains

Time for some hibernating and soul-searching and truth-finding. Followed by some making it all happen.

But first, I think I'll have another slice of pie...]]>
Thu, 20 Oct 2011 18:24:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/now-what--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/now-what--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterAnd they all lived...Note to my ten-year-old self: you know that day, the one you're waiting for, that day when truth and justice shall win out and your past hurts will be vindicated and the promised happily-ever-after will begin? Well, it is coming, do not give up hope, but... seriously, just kick him in the shins while you still can, it will be MUCH more satisfying. :-)

Because that day has come. I won. After an over three-decade wait, the day has finally come when truth and justice has prevailed. I was right, they were bad. Yet, ironically enough, the quest for truth and justice has come with a price of sworn confidentiality. Oh, c'mon, how sick a joke is that? (Ah well, I'm sure it'll all make it into a song, somehow, someday...)

There will be no singing from the rooftops, there will be no kicking in the shins.

There is a tremendous relief, of course, that a three-decade battle is finally over. There is a certain confidence that comes from the official declaration that I was right and they were bad. I was not crazy. I was right and they were bad.

But there's also a certain hollowness. Because no matter how right I was, or how many people declare me to be right... they were still bad. The scars don't suddenly disappear. The lies that were told and the choices I made based on those lies don't suddenly get reversed. The secrets I kept to defend myself from those lies don't retrospectively get revealed in time for anyone to save ten-year-old (or twenty-, or thirty- or...) me from the damage they caused. The people who were protected by my silence do not have to deal with the consequences -- they're long gone, forever consequence-free (unless there is, in fact, a place called hell, in which case, I've got some marshmallows that need toasting!).

And yes, those of you who have been paying attention through the years and have a certain skill of reading between the lines have probably figured out by now that this all ties in to the abuse I endured as a child -- not directly, of course, but intertwined enough to be tugging at far too many strings than my heart and mind really know what to do with right now.

Those who have been on this path with me in recent years have been expecting pom-poms and champagne. I suppose a part of me was hoping for the little happy dance, too. But the most telling comment, when I was talking to both my sister and honorary sister after hearing the good news was "I can't believe how much I've been crying today!"

Some of those, of course, are happy tears. Some are tears of relief. Some come from the sadness that the man who started carrying a sword with us almost two decades ago died suddenly on Monday, two days before he could have celebrated this victory with us. (Thank you, Jim, for standing by us all these years. I hope there's champagne wherever you are, or at least a really awesome single malt!) Some come from the fact that it took us this long to get here. Some come from all that we lost, and missed, in the meantime.

Mostly they come from knowing I was right, they were bad. And that it doesn't change anything.

The happily ever after is never the end, it doesn't really exist. There is much still to be done. There is much that can never be undone. I still need to get back on the treadmill (literally!) and back into shape (a shape that doesn't involve waves and ripples...). There are still cobwebs in the corners. My husband still has to go for cancer surgery on Tuesday. I still have to practise my cello and plan a tour and pat the cats and brush my teeth and pay the bills.

Nothing has changed.

Of course, the here-and-now me in her fifth decade (!) didn't really expect it to. She knows better. But the ten-year-old me was still, I guess, hoping for the magical fairy tale ending -- and I was still hoping she'd get it. Not to mention the twenty-year-old me, and the thirty-year-old me...

So, where do you go when you hit the end of the story?

If it were Hollywood, I guess I could go for Return of the Revenge of Lyssy, Part II. But I've always been more into books than movies -- more room to think your own thoughts, dream your own dreams. Pick up a new book and try another world.

Better still, write a new story.

I could easily waste a lot of time going through the what-ifs, what-might-have-beens and what-will-never-bes.

Instead, I choose "now what?"

I have come to the end of one story. And I am eager to devour the next. Which one? Which one? True to form, there are a few dozen on the side table, wanting me to pick them first. Or, even truer to form, read three or four of them first.

But I'm kind of tired of reading other people's stories. Living other people's stories. Dealing with other people's stories. Reacting to other people's stories.

It's time for my story. My life.

And so, here I am, walking into the sunset. The beautiful sunset. Where the Hollywood story usually ends.

The way it works in the real world, however, is:

After the sun sets, the heroine puts on her snuggliest flannel, hops into bed to cuddle with her hubby and cats, and falls into a deep, delicious sleep. And then the sun rises again. And then she sits, and waits, and gathers her thoughts and her pens and her paints and her tunes. And then she embarks on her next adventure.

Once upon a time... there was a little girl who had faith. Faith that she would survive. Faith that things would get better. She was right. The Beginning.]]>
Wed, 19 Oct 2011 22:16:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/and-they-all-lived--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/and-they-all-lived--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterComing homeI've been writing tour blogs over at www.thebrights.ca/journal, but have been ignoring my own... As well as my own creativity.

A number of things have happened in the meantime, which make me want to get back to it. Some difficult chapters have ended, some new connections made... and now it's time to get back to me.

I have been enjoying my new friend Louise's blog over at www.recoveryourjoy.blogspot.com, and mentioned I wanted to get back into it, myself. See what happens when I open my big mouth? :-)

It's been surprising to me how many people were reading the tour blog and getting something out of it. Apparently, my musings and blatherings do touch others, give them something to laugh about, think about... who knew? And I have to say, that as much as I DON'T miss blogging in the car, I do miss having that time each day to focus in and just write.

Creatively, I mean. My morning pages (3 pages of longhand, as described in The Artist's Way) seem to have descended into to-do lists and griping sessions.

I don't think to-do lists and griping sessions will touch many people...

So, here I am, committing to ripping my guts out in public once more.

Bring popcorn. And a helmet.

Because today, apparently, is the first day of the rest of my life. And I've run out of excuses for not living it my way. (Well, I'm sure I can think of some more, but... I'll try hard not to!)

See you in cyberspace,Alyssa]]>
Wed, 19 Oct 2011 16:17:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/coming-home--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/coming-home--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterLife and Living and LeapingYes, it's been a long time since I've written here -- life has been rather full this past year, of course, but I wonder if some other forces have been at work, as I've had a "dry spell" in all my writing and other creative ventures. It was suggested to me earlier in the week that these plateaus, road blocks, or whatever you choose to call them, are simply "enforced resting periods." I can definitely see that in my world... what we refuse to provide for ourselves, the universe provides in weird and wonderful ways.

Like this past month, for instance. One month ago yesterday, I almost died. In rather dramatic fashion. Having spent a few years living with the cancer worry floating around in the back of my head -- but not being able to convince anyone in the medical profession to take my concerns seriously -- the kitten-sized tumour (that was supposedly non-existant) decided to make her presence blatantly obvious by making a break for freedom. I named her "Big Ethyl", and am, in a twisted sort of way, rather proud of her determination to be acknowledged.

How many times have we had to fight to be heard? Or recognized? Or even noticed to exist? And when it doesn't happen, how many of us have then turned that against ourselves and decided that we aren't worth hearing, haven't done anything worth recognizing, and maybe shouldn't even exist? So we deny, repress, deny, repress, until -- like Big Ethyl -- something explodes and paints the walls a big, bloody mess that can no longer be ignored, no matter how hard everyone tries.

That, my friends, is my life story in a nutshell. The big, bloody messes haven't always been so... well, big and bloody, though I can see metaphorical echoes (pre-echoes?) of Big Ethyl in so many points along my journey.

I keep telling people how lucky I was that Big Ethyl exploded when she did -- when I live a mere two blocks from the emergency ward, when I have my beloved to look after me when I can no longer stand on my own, when we weren't on an airplane or driving through the Rockies. But her timing was so perfect in many other ways as well. I needed this reminder that I deserve to be heard, and recognized, and to exist. I had been slipping back into old patterns of putting everyone and everything else first, and not looking after myself -- or even acknowledging my own existence or basic needs.

To such a ridiculous extent that Don practically had to DRAG me to Emerg as I protested that I was fine and didn't want to be too much of a bother, they had more pressing cases to deal with. And then woke up the morning between Big Ethyl's Great Escape and the surgery to complete her quest thinking I should really get out of bed and spend my down-time doing some chores (not a good idea, as I discovered when I realized that losing half your haemoglobin makes standing up to brush your teeth a rather tricky endeavour...). And then took my laptop to bed, so I could still make sure the Orillia Folk Society's upcoming concert went off without a hitch, and sneak in some PR work. And gave myself guilt trips for cancelling my students that week, until I convinced myself they might be grossed out by the carnage. OK, so it took a few days for me to fully absorb Big Ethyl's message, but I eventually got it!

Flash forward to this week, having recovered from a successful surgery, when I actually AM driving through the Rockies (or about to), surrounded by beauty -- the landscape, the people we've met, the music, the ideas. Don and I have just spent a week in a creativity workshop with Victor Wooten on Gabriola Island, BC, and enjoyed an incredible solo concert -- solo, that is, until he invited me and four others to sit in with him on a song. Yes, people, I just played a concert with Victor Wooten. Which would be incredibly cool at any time, but when it happens on the anniversary (monthiversary?) of my near-death, "HOLY CRAP!!!" is about as articulate as I can get.

Not only that, but I did a mighty fine job at it! Not only did I "not suck", I was really quite good. Victor kept telling me how beautiful my solo was, and used me as an example to the group the next morning, saying I was "a virtuoso" (referring to my "Both Sides Now" arrangement he had heard earlier in the week) on my instrument, but could get into the music and forsake virtuosity for the feel, and to support the others on stage with me, which was a goal to which we all needed to aspire.

And, let me tell you, the Old Me is twisting and turning and shouting inside me and trying her damndest to prevent me from writing that above paragraph. "Be small!", she's shouting, "you're not being small enough! The world is about to end!!!"

Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it's a world that needs to end.

Thursday night after the concert, I was brazen enough to post on FaceBook that "I might have kicked a wee bit of ass tonight." You can only imagine how much the Old Me punished myself for that in the following 24 hours. She actually tried to get me to erase that post, but someone had already responded (thanks, paul!), so I didn't feel it was right. And it wouldn't have been right, anyway.

Yes, I kicked ass. Yes, one of the most creative and innovative musicians around thinks I'm good. Yes, I should make myself a flashing neon sign that says "I kick ass and I'm damned good!" Yes, I should feel proud of myself -- it's taken 40 years of work to get to where I am today, not just musically but in my life in general. My life is awesome. Sure, much of that awesomeness comes from sheer good luck (I was born in Canada, fer cryin' out loud!), but a lot of the perceived good luck that has come my way has come along because I set things in motion, was prepared for it, and receptive to it -- AND dealt with the bad luck (and those who know my whole story know I was born into a lot of that, too!) in a positive way.

(The next step, of course, is being able to make that neon sign flash BEFORE someone else plugs it in for me, but... you know... baby steps.)

As many of you know, on my sister-friend Ali's birthday, she brings "the girls" together for an evening with Jude, who gives us all our Tarot readings for the year. Analytical-brained me was incredibly skeptical of this at first, but Jude has proven herself year after year. I left my notes (pun intended, for those of you who were at the workshop) at home, and am really itching to re-read them all right now, but the main message to me in this year's reading was that I had laid the groundwork (and needed to keep working on that), and that and the social/relationship connections I was making were preparing the way for something really big in my musical career. And when that unexpected opportunity came up, I had to be ready to take that leap of faith and trust that the groundwork and relationships would hold me up and propel me forward.

Where and what that leap is is supposed to be a surprise, which is part of the fun. The song we played together on Thursday was "Stand By Me" -- my first reaction to the choice was "oh geez, how many times have I played that song? this is gonna be boring". But then Julie, the singer, came in in a place nobody expected. And then Victor threw in some notes and chord changes that nobody expected. And then we all put in dynamics that went the opposite direction anyone familiar with the song would have expected. AND it became more fun than I've had in ages -- we were all flying by the seat of our pants, pushing our imaginations into strange new worlds and taking the audience along for a very cool ride. It was the not knowing that kept it interesting, kept us listening, kept us working and exploring and taking that leap of faith together.

Going back to the Tarot, it was like we were all Card Zero, The Fool -- juggling all the possibilities, being everything and nothing, looking at the world with wonder and imagination and awe, and having the innocent faith that our leap of faith would open up a whole new world of possibility. And it DID. That wonder and imagination and the faith, love and trust that six previously total strangers had for each other created a remarkable thing -- something I don't think anyone in that room will forget in a long, long time.

And, Fool that I am, I'm still juggling and wondering and playing and have not come down from that incredible high. The leap of faith hasn't landed. I'm not sure if it will, before I take the next one. Those who got used to the Old Me being back again might be in for a few bloody walls of their own.

Just waiting for the laundry to finish up before heading to the last play-time with Lilly and Wyatt (boo hoo). But thought I'd catch you up on the birthday weekend while I waited.

Saturday afternoon, we visited Don's cousins in Dartmouth -- they're such a fabulous family. They were very happy about the engagement, and I don't think Becky stopped smiling once! Becky has also convinced me (very little arm-twisting necessary!) to come to her Open Field Retreat in January and do a workshop in finding your authentic voice -- I can't wait! It was an all-too-short visit with Becky & Jim, Hugh & Chris and Lois, plus a phone call from Deb in Salt Lake City. But it was lots of fun, and we'll be seeing them again soon, I'm sure.

In the evening, Don took me out for my Birthday Eve dinner, just up the road at The Brooklyn Warehouse -- our favourite in the area. Apparently, it's become many others' favourite too, because we had to wait a little bit for a table, and it was quite busy for most of our dinner. Oh well, we enjoyed some fancy cocktails at the bar, so all was well! :-) We shared an appetizer of to-die-for hummus and pita. Main course was steak for Don (he always has the steak there), and a vegan angel hair "carbonara" for me, with smoked tofu -- never had it before, but I'll be keeping an eye out, because it's amazing (Don the tofu-hater even liked it!). Washed down, of course, with a lovely French Pinot Noir. Remembering the last time we ate there -- and the painful waddle home -- we opted to skip dessert this time, but had some Monte Christo coffees instead. Mmm-mmm!

Sunday morning, we got up early (musicians' early, anyhow) for the weekly Breakfast Club breakkie at Athens -- I think there were about 14 of us there this week. Then, in honour of my birthday, I had a two hour nap. :-)

And then the "surprise" party (not really a surprise, since Lilly had broken the news several weeks ago, and had talked about it almost every day we were here) at Mom's house. Lilly still yelled "surprise" with great gusto, though!!! She had made me a card that wished me Merry Christmas (a running joke, since nobody is "allowed" to decorate or sing Christmas carols until after my birthday in this family -- which means she's been singing carols at the top of her voice since I arrived!), plus a very colourful play-clay sculpture of somebody swimming in the swimming pool. Her parents gave me a great wine diary and a bottle of Rioja Gran Riserva to start me off. Funny, friends Sheila and Hugh also brought me wine -- a local brew which looks lovely too. Mom opted for the non-alcoholic present, giving me a lovely wood-block serving tray with sailboats, some lovely "live love laugh" magnets, and a CD from her recent trip to Newfoundland.

Food and beverages? Well... this is where it gets interesting. Pot Roast. Yes, pot roast was the main course served at my birthday. For those of you who don't know, I am a vegetarian and have been one for about two decades. Who would serve pot roast at a vegetarian's birthday party? Yup, my mother. This explains so much on so many levels, doesn't it? ;-)

But she redeemed herself with the traditional Wright-family birthday cake -- angel food with chocolate drizzles. Don is a convert. We ate the final slices of leftovers for breakfast this morning. :-)

Ah... and perfect timing. The laundry just finished, and I have to dash over to play with my niece and nephew. Life is rough...

OK, yes, the rumours are true -- although it's probably the worst-kept secret in showbiz. The Brights are, indeed, well on their way to being The Brights for real and for true -- we are now officially engaged. :-)

In fact, the worst-kept secret kind of made itself made by being the worst-kept secret. At dinner with my family, Don let it slip we were trying to figure out where to get married. Ears were perked, champagne was poured, all was good. :-) So, the following morning, we broke it to the kidlets. Wyatt, of course, could have cared less... Lilly immediately shut the door to the hallway and started practising walking in a straight line with a bouquet full of flowers. So we might not know where or when or whatever... but apparently our flower girl is sorted out. ;-)

So... other than that... my Ontario cousin, Chris, was in Hali on business, so we had a grand family dinner at Tarah and Daniel's on Monday night! Funny how we have to go to a different province to see each other, aiyaiyai! But we had a great visit, and... ooh, perhaps a few too many bottles of wine between us all. Hey, it was the beginning of our time off, with family we love -- what the heck?

Tuesday morning, I took my nephew Wyatt to kindermusik. While he absolutely adores music (and has a great sense of rhythm), the greatest draw for him was the mosque being built next door! This boy is definitely going to be a crane operator when he grows up. Although he was equally as fascinated with the garbage pick-up on the way home: "someday, Wyatt ride on garbage truck!!!" Tuesdays are usually Wyatt's "special days" with Grammie -- this week, it was special day with Auntie Lyssy, and we made the most of it. :-)

After a fun day with my nephew, we headed west to Lunenburg, to visit with our friends Bob and Julia. We headed to the Tin Fish restaurant for dinner -- lovely food! -- where their friend Paul was playing, with his wife Eilidh and daughter were also visiting. A lovely evening. We stayed at Bob & Julia's beautiful house overlooking the sea, and stayed up into the wee hours catching up on everything. In the not-so-wee hours the next day, we headed back into Hali, through the drizzle and fog.

Wednesday night, we were on our own, and headed down to Quinpool to have dinner at the FANTASTIC "It's All Greek to Me". Cheezy name, yes, but the food and the service are INCREDIBLE!!! (It was all we could do to not sneak back there tonight.) Yes, I like food and wine. Yes, this is an amazing restaurant. Trust me. Go. :-)

Thursdays are usually Lilly's special days with Grammie -- which means I got her this week. She woke us up very gently this morning (she could teach grammie a few lessons in this department -- oops! did I use my outside voice?!?), with a whisper and a snuggle, and then she went to get Grammie to bring us coffee. I have obviously trained this child well!!!

Once coffee was administered, it was down to the kitchen to paint some ornaments for the Solstice tree. It's a running gag that there are to be no holiday decorations put up until after Sunday (my birthday), so she waxed eloquent on all the stores that have ignored the rule, plus the fact that her parents have put up a wreath already. It's fun that she's at the age where teasing is possible.

Her mom and dad were out looking at prospective schools for her for next year -- yikes, is she that old already?!? Her favourite so far is the Shambhala school, where they put on shows. Yup, my niece the showgirl, who'd-a thunk? (They also have a teeter-totter, which came a close second!)

Then it was a late visit to the bookstore (who can resist?), and dinner around the corner. It's now 10pm and we feel like it's 3am -- is that all the time with the kids, or are we finally feeling the effects of the champagne from the other day? Probably both...

Well, we're off to early slumber-land. Yes, believe it or not... Tomorrow is our final Nova Scotia show at Brookside Cottage -- so we'll need our beauty sleep. :-)

Thanks, as always, for reading,Alyssa]]>
Thu, 26 Nov 2009 21:38:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/for-those-of-you-who-don-t-read-the-brights-blog--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/for-those-of-you-who-don-t-read-the-brights-blog--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterSinging for my supperI'm on tour with The Brights right now, but did a solo (or, sorta solo) gig thisafternoon at The Carleton in Halifax. It was a return visit to "Sing For Your Supper", a songwriters circle led every Saturday by our friend (and amazing songwriter) Kev Corbett. The lovely and talented Don Bray was also a guest artist, as was Jadea Kelly and surprise guest David Borins (who is touring with Jadea).

It was a fun afternoon, and there was a larger audience there than we'd had the last time we played the series. We made some new friends, and made a new connection that might prove profitable in the long run... (not saying it out loud yet, I don't want to jinx myself!)

Kev gave us a copy of his yet-to-be-released CD, Son of a Rudderless Boat, which I'm really looking forward to hearing. Jadea and David also gave us their CDs, so we'll have some pleasant listening material on the road, for sure! This was the first time I had heard either of them, and it was a treat. Although David did a song about disliking women who drink whiskey... he promised me it was just a song. :-) I countered, of course, with Not Enough Whiskey -- dodge, parry, thrust!

Unlike last time, we actually got to stay for dinner -- The Carleton has great food, let me tell you! Don had the ribs in... some sort of brandied BBQ sauce. I had curried penne with shrimps and scallops, mmm-mmm, and a nice Australian Merlot whose name I've already forgotten. Hopefully Kev will invite us back a third time, so we can sample more of the menu. :-)

Actually, we might be heading back next Monday, if we aren't busy visiting family -- David Myles is playing that night. We saw him at Shelter Valley this summer, and would love to see a full night of him!

Well, I'm off to tuck my niece into bed. Hope everyone's having a great weekend!

Alyssa]]>
Sat, 21 Nov 2009 18:57:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/singing-for-my-supper--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/singing-for-my-supper--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterRemembrance Day - The Armed ManWednesday, I played a Remembrance Day concert with the King Edward Singers in Barrie -- the piece was "The Armed Man: A Mass for Peace" by Karl Jenkins. A beautiful work, with some lovely cello passages (and some hair-raising bowing technique - aiyaiyai!). It was a real pleasure, although emotionally quite difficult, when I caught a glimpse of obvious veterans in the audience, and their reactions.

Of course, some of the reactions were quite humorous! In one movement, it's mostly men singing a capella with slow, quiet lines. Then all of a sudden, completely out of nowhere, there's a huge CRASH in the percussion -- everyone jumped, then looked around nervously and giggled a little bit. Not, perhaps, the effect Mr. Jenkins was looking for. ;-)

But it was a very moving piece, and I enjoyed participating in it. John Swartz of the Orillia Packet & Times pointed out that this is the same composer who wrote the music to that famous DeBeers diamond commercial campaign. I mentioned this to some friends as we were leaving (Sandra Ruttan, of the Amity Trio, and her husband Rob), who laughed at the irony... yes, trust a poet to notice. :-)

Well, I've just spent two days in front of the computer screen, trying to get some software fixed up for the Orillia Folk Society. I think I've had enough of computer screens! More later.

Musically,Alyssa]]>
Fri, 13 Nov 2009 01:01:00 -0500http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/remembrance-day-the-armed-man--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/remembrance-day-the-armed-man--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterCD Release -- or, why I've been too busy to rant recently!I realize those of you who know me must have been scratching your heads when I actually said -- TWICE -- that I was too busy to rant! But it's true, things have been a little nuts around here. Of course, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and it'll be smacking me in the face on Sunday. :-)

I'm talking, of course, about the CD RELEASE!!! For those of you who have managed to escape my nattering so far, the fabulously talented (and downright sexy) guitarist and singer-songwriter Don Bray and I have a folk-roots duo called The Brights (Bray, Wright... do the 'Electric Company' thing and you'll figure it out). After almost two years of saying "we should really..." we finally have -- the debut CD "Live Love Dream" is back from the manufacturer's, and we're ready to unleash it on the world!

The CD Release concert takes place this Sunday, May 3, 2:00 pm at Hugh's Room in Toronto. Doors open at noon, with their delicious Sunday brunch menu available. Advance tickets are $14, through 416-531-6604 or www.hughsroom.com, or $16 at the door. Copies of the new CD will, of course, be available at the show -- and we'll be bringing our Sharpies! :-)

I will be spending Saturday tackling the last of the webcode (please oh please oh please let it be the last of the webcode!) making the CD available online via our website. Ah, the glamorous life of an independent musician... (Note to friendly neighbours -- I will be gladly accepting cocktails any time after 6pm!) Will keep you posted on the availability.

I'm hoping that -- once the blasted code is finished -- I'll have more time for my general ranting and raving. Keep your fingers crossed for whichever scenario you prefer. ;-)

Musically,Alyssa]]>
Fri, 01 May 2009 21:19:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/cd-release-or-why-i-ve-been-too-busy-to-rant-recently--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/cd-release-or-why-i-ve-been-too-busy-to-rant-recently--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterMore madness about the CBCStill insanely busy, but thought I'd pass on the latest from Friends of the CBC. I'll go back to ranting one of these days, I promise!

************

Dear Alyssa,

Let's tell Heritage Minister James Moore to come clean!

Despite their claims, the Conservatives have not provided CBC record levels of funding. Instead, the Conservative have actually cut CBC's funding by $63 million, according to the latest spending plan tabled by the government in Parliament on February 26th, 2009.

Telling the truth is the first step toward ensuring the CBC is given the funding it needs.

Take Action Now!

********************

Something very troubling has arisen amid the deep cuts to the CBC's creative staff and programs.

Under intense questioning in Parliament and in response to messages from tens of thousands of CBC supporters, the Prime Minister and many of his MPs have made false statements.

Prime Minister Harper stated falsely in the House of Commons on March 25, that this year's Budget provides CBC with "record financing... in the order of $1.1 billion".

Many people who wrote to their Conservative MPs have shared the responses with us. These replies are modeled on statements the Prime Minister has made in Parliament.

Here is a typical example:

"As far as funding is concerned, the CBC is currently receiving the highest funding package in its history. This year the CBC will receive $1.1 billion of taxpayers' money."

This statement is false!

This development goes to the heart of integrity in public life. We should be able to expect our Prime Minister and his followers to tell us the truth.

The real story from the government's Main Estimates (their spending plan for the coming year) tabled on February 26 is that the government has cut CBC's funding in 2009/10 by $63 million – that's equivalent to a $79 million reduction in purchasing power when inflation is considered. And, since they were first elected, the Conservatives have cut the purchasing power of CBC's grant by $119 million (when inflation is taken into account).

I believe this is an indicator of the pressure being felt by the government, especially by those Conservative MPs who won by narrow margins in last autumn's election and who are hearing our message loud and clear.

We must work hard to maintain and increase that pressure. There is a golden opportunity to fight for the CBC this Wednesday (April 29) when Heritage Minister James Moore will be appearing before the House of Commons Heritage Committee.

This is an important occasion. It will be the first time MPs have had a chance to grill the Minister in detail since the CBC announced its cuts.

So I urge you to send a message to Minister Moore.

Please ask him to just tell the truth when he appears before the Heritage Committee. Telling the truth is the first step toward ensuring the CBC is given the funding that it needs.

Your message will be automatically copied to members of the Heritage Committee, your own MP, the Prime Minister and the other Party leaders.

After thousands of people have demanded that the CBC be adequately funded, the Conservative government is feeling the pressure. There is hope for a sustainable future for CBC. We can turn this hope into reality if we act together now.

Please send your message to Heritage Minister James Moore now!

Yours sincerely,

Ian MorrisonSpokespersonFRIENDS of Canadian Broadcasting]]>
Mon, 27 Apr 2009 14:03:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/more-madness-about-the-cbc--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/more-madness-about-the-cbc--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterCBC Survival is Essential!!!I'm afraid I'm just too busy to compose one of my trademark rants, but this issue is too huge for me to remain silent. So I'm going to just cut and paste a few things in here.

I can't believe that the government of Canada would consider bailing out private broadcasters while leaving CBC to face a $200 million deficit with no help whatsoever. Please make sure CBC has the resources it needs to do its job.

Arts, Culture and Communication are the lifeblood of any country. When industry and economy are down in times such as these, Communication, Motivation and Inspiration are especially key -- not just to keeping us afloat, but speeding up our recovery.

Canada’s media networks have all been slammed by the recession. But the government is reportedly considering bailouts for its friends at private companies CTV and CanWest, while forcing the CBC to drastically cut 800 staff and programming.

Our CBC is a national treasure, and a pillar of public−interest journalism in a country whose media is owned by a few large firms. We won’t hear an outcry from their media outlets, and the CBC is too principled to use its megaphone to make the case for itself. We are the only voice the CBC has.

We urgently need a massive public outcry to Save the CBC, click below to sign the petition and forward this email to everyone who might care about this:

The petition will be delivered directly to the government, through Parliament, ads, and stunts such as an airplane pulling a giant Save the CBC banner over Ottawa. In each case the number of signatures on the petition will be crucial to the effectiveness of the campaign, so let’s get as many people as possible to sign.

The CBC is facing a budget shortfall that amounts to just $6 per Canadian, but its request to the government for a bridging loan to cover this was denied. The deep cuts the CBC is making will damage the organization across the board, and they will not be the last. If we don’t stand up for the CBC now, it stands to die a death by a thousand cuts. Harper’s minority government is politically vulnerable – public outrage could turn the government around on this, but it has to happen now. Let's move quickly.

With hope,

Ricken, Lisa−Marie, Laryn and the whole Avaaz Canada team.

*********

Next, the letter I received yesterday from Friends of Canadian Broadcasting:

CBC's creative people have just been through the week from hell.

The cuts announced last week will leave our beleaguered public broadcaster a shadow of its former self, especially in smaller communities where CBC is often the only option.

This is all so unnecessary, yet this may be only the beginning.

More cuts to CBC news are expected mid-April. And if Stephen Harper's hand-picked President cannot raise enough through a firesale of CBC assets, he says that even more cuts will be required.

But there is a glimmer of hope. I urge you to join with me to stoke it.

Viewers and listeners have been outraged by the events of the past week. We have bombarded our MPs with calls, letters and emails demanding action. A storm of protest has erupted in the House of Commons as a result, and the government is under intense pressure to prevent the announced cuts.

Please join with me to turn up the volume by sending a message to the Prime Minister today demanding action.

There is a simple and inexpensive solution to CBC's funding shortfall.

Among modern industrialized nations, Canada in near the bottom when it comes to investing in public broadcasting. The average is $80 per citizen and countries like Great Britain, Germany and Norway invest even more.

In Canada, our government provides only $33 per citizen. That's just not enough for CBC to serve as the public broadcaster Canadians want and need. The House of Commons Standing Committee on Canadian Heritage has recognized this and called for an increase of $7 per person - to $40.

Please join me to urge our government to bump up Canada's investment to at least half the average. That would mean only a $7 increase for each Canadian. Per year!

If we don't act today, the pressure on the government and the momentum we have built will be lost.

Seven dollars is a small price to pay to keep our CBC.

Please act now... before it's too late.

Yours sincerely,

Ian MorrisonSpokespersonFRIENDS of Canadian Broadcasting

P.S. Please feel free to forward this email

*****

The Friends of Canadian Broadcasting also have a FaceBook site. I encourage everyone to support the CBC!!!

(Who knows, I may still end up ranting later, but right now I've got a tour and CD release to work on )]]>
Mon, 30 Mar 2009 21:35:00 -0400http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/cbc-survival-is-essential--3
http://alyssawright.com/ramblings/blog/cbc-survival-is-essential--3Alyssa Wright, cellist, singer-songwriterWelcome to Alyssa's Adventures in Celloland!

Also known as Alyssa’s first adventure in blogging. A natural endeavour for someone infamous for her online rants, er… highly-informative essays.

I’ll be taking a while to explore my new surroundings, but am looking forward to nattering on at you in the days to come.